


Mush!

by sphesphe



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alaska, Alternate Universe - Magic, Dogsledding, M/M, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2017-11-18 00:03:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sphesphe/pseuds/sphesphe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two months away from his first adult-class dog sledding race, Stiles finds a big, black, surly dog at the local shelter with a tag inscribed <em>Derek</em> on the collar around his neck. Despite all sense, he decides to try training Derek as a sled dog. It's probably going to all end in tears.</p><p>(FWIW... <del>the Iditarod</del> + Swan Lake = this story)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Let me explain: I woke up one night at 4 a.m. with "TEEN WOLF IDITAROD AU" flashing in my brain and the idea wouldn't let go. But the Iditarod would be way too crazy for a novice so this ended up being about a mid-length race, the Tustumena 200.
> 
> Please note I have never owned a dog let alone a whole kennel of dogs, seen a dog sledding race, been to Alaska, practiced witchcraft, known a werewolf, or basically experienced **anything** this story is about. If I got anything egregiously wrong due to half-assed research, let me know.
> 
> * * * TWO YEARS LATER: Hey so I finished this story. DANG it's been a long time. I apologize to anyone who was actually interested!
> 
> This is two years late, but uh [finnjavelz](http://finnjavelz.tumblr.com/) drew some [lovely art with this fic in mind](http://finnjavelz.tumblr.com/post/38887202343/its-wolf-derek-bonus).

  
_lol yep I drew fanart for my own dang story_

“You _have_ to see this dog,” Scott told him. “Just trust me.”

Stiles looked around at the kennel of fifty-one Alaskan huskies to which he had just finished doling out food. Everyone was eating well — each dog had slobbered up its soup (consisting of high-performance kibble, fatty meat and water mixed into a highly appetizing-looking brown slop) in forty seconds or less. Which was good! A good eater meant a good sledder, Kay always said. He went to rinse out the bucket and said into his phone, “Scott, I think I’ve got more dogs on my hands than a guy can manage, even such a perspicacious and photogenic guy as myself.”

“Perspi— really, Stiles?” He could practically hear Scott rolling his eyes on the other end of the line. “Seriously though. You will thank me if you just come down to the shelter. He’s, uh, not exactly… conventionally beautiful, but you being so photogenic you probably wouldn’t want to share the spotlight with like, a dog version of Adriana Lima anyway, right?”

“Really selling the case here,” Stiles said. “I mean, as long as he isn’t Dog Quasimodo, I do not actually require flowing locks or flawless tits in my dogs, so… fine. But we’re kinda already ass-deep in dogs, dude.” He paused. “Uh, that sounded wrong. I did not mean to imply any sort of bestiality sexytimes.”

Stiles could just imagine the grossed-out scrunchy face Scott was making while waiting out this blather. He sighed and said, “Okay, okay, I’ll go by the shelter and just take a look. But I don’t know what you’re so worked up about, shelter dogs almost never make good sled dogs!”

“You’ll thank me later,” Scott said again. “Oops, Deaton’s calling me. Talk to you later?”

“Sure, dude. Bye,” Stiles said, hanging up, and promptly forgot all about it as he harnessed the dogs up to the sled for a a longer training run. He had to train as much as possible during weekends, since it was hard to get much done during school days and they still had plenty of work to do to get in full condition. Princess had a fair amount of experience leading, but Tony Stark (yes, he’d named some of his dogs after superheroes, what of it?), like his namesake, did not respond well to authority and teaching him the commands had been a struggle. Tony was smart enough, even if he was an ornery bastard, and had eventually learned to be a good enough lead dog. _Most_ days.

There was a good layer of powder on the ground, having snowed two nights before. It was early December, dark and blustery. He still had almost two months to train. No big deal.

Not until the next day did Stiles remember his quest. The run had gone well and he needed a break, so he made the drive out to the Beacon Hills animal shelter to see Scott’s legendary not-supermodel dog.

* * *

He was going to kill Scott.

Or kiss him. It depended on many factors, such as whether or not Kay and/or Stiles’ dad killed Stiles first, or if the dog turned out to be a ravenous eater of human flesh or, in some freak of luck, became a star sled dog. Because despite any of that, no matter what, Stiles _had to have this dog._

“His name’s Derek,” Joanna, the volunteer at the shelter, told him. “Had a collar and a tag and everythin’ when we found him, though no owner information or vaccination tags neither. Growled a bit when we first brought him in but hasn’t shown much aggression otherwise. Too early to tell if he’s really suitable for adoption, though. Deaton checked him out and he’s in perfect health. Not fixed though.”

“Yeah? No bad human’s taken away your balls, huh boy?” Stiles crooned at the dog. Joanna laughed. The dog did not look amused. In fact the dog looked pretty scary.

Scary, sure, but Scott was totally insane, he reflected. “Not conventionally beautiful,” yeah, _right_. You didn’t have to look like fucking Lassie to be one hell of a handsome animal. Sure, Derek’s dark coat looked kinda ragged and lacked luster, but was obviously thick and warm, nor did the scruffy fur conceal the powerful build underneath. This dog was clearly a _beast_.

And that _face_. That long, classically lupine snout and pointed ears… if it hadn’t been for the collar and tags, people probably would have thought he was a straight up wolf. And he was steadily glaring at Stiles with wide-set green-gray eyes that glowed with intelligence. 

Okay, he was way huge for a sled dog, which tended to average around 50 pounds, prizing speed and stamina over size, but— Stiles caught himself and shook his head vigorously to clear his thoughts. This was crazy talk. You couldn’t just take some rando dog from god knew where out of a shelter and expect it to take to mushing. Especially at this stage in training! He might not get along with the other dogs. He might have obedience issues. He might just not like pulling — not having been bred specifically for it and surrounded by it from puppyhood like the other dogs in Kay’s kennel. He might— 

“So what do you think?” Joanna asked dryly.

“I want him so bad, you don’t even know,” Stiles said instantly. “It’s a terrible idea and will almost certainly end in tears, but holy shit, this dog! Just imagine, like, this guy leading your team on the Iditarod! So badass.”

“Or… the T200?” Joanna asked innocently.

Stiles eyed her. “Okay, who spilled the beans? Am I gonna have to fight some filthy rumormongers with a stick? Does _everyone_ know?”

“Oh, you know, small town, talk gets around…” Joanna said, grinning. “Tustumena’s a good choice. Pretty challenging for a first adult-class race. Coming up pretty soon.”

“I _am_ 18 now. Totally an adult. Ready for an adult challenge. And yeah, I’m all too aware that the clock is ticking.” Stiles wondered whether he’d get his whole hand back if he tried to pet Derek. The dog was eyeballing him like he knew what Stiles was thinking and wasn’t into it. He kept his hands to himself. _For now._

“Kay’s real proud of you, you know. She couldn’t run that kennel without you, for all that she’s one tough lady.”

“Yeah, well…” Stiles muttered, embarrassed. “I’d probably wither away after two days without seeing those dogs, it’s like sunlight to Superman. Y’know. Aaaanyway… so! How about if I go sweet-talk my dad and Kay and I come back when I’ve pestered them into giving me a chance with this _awesome creature_? Yeah, that’s you, you just need a good brushing and some premium moose steaks and you’d be winning freakin’ Eukanuba Championships hands down.” Stiles was aware that he was babbling and probably making disgusting gooey eyes at the dog, who was — yes — _glaring_ between him and Joanna.

She shrugged. “I’m not seeing anyone else knockin’ down the door to adopt a large, possibly feral wolfdog, so… take your own sweet time, Stiles. Good luck to ya.”

“Thanks, Joanna. Derek,” Stiles said very seriously. “I’m coming for you. I’ll be back. Save yourself for me.”

Absconding in a rush, he thought for a second he glimpsed the big black dog _roll his eyes._ Just yet more evidence that he was losing his mind.

* * *

Stiles wasted no time commencing the plan of attack.

“Is this an actual meat burger?” Sheriff John Stilinski said incredulously. “Who are you, and what have you done with my son?”

Stiles tried out what he thought was a generous filial smile. “Well, I know work has been tough lately, and I thought you could use, y’know, a restorative. A little honest animal protein once in a while, no big deal, right?”

His dad’s eyebrows conveyed a disappointing lack of faith in this statement’s sincerity. “All right, Stiles. Just lay it on me. What did you do?”

“I resent that, I’ve been an absolute paragon, ask anyone,” Stiles said. “But—“

“Yeah. I thought I smelled a butt.”

“Ha ha. So anyway, I took a quick sojourn over to the animal shelter today, and I, uh, kind of met someone. And obviously it’s like way too early to come to any conclusions about long-term prospects or anything, and this probably sounds all kinds of crazy, but I just have, like, a really good feeling about it. So… would you, Dad, support me were I to embark on this relationship… ship?”

“Of course I support you, no matter what,” his dad said automatically, which was cool. Best dad ever. “As long as you’re talking about an actual human person. Because you mentioned the shelter, which triggers in me a certain suspicion that you are, in fact, talking about a dog.”

Sometimes it sucked having a dad who knew you way too well _and_ was a sheriff and therefore had detective-level insights into your cunning plans.

“Okay, yes, I am talking about a dog,” Stiles said. “You should see this dog, dad. He is really super badass, let me tell you. He was looking at me with, like, genuine human intelligence in his eyes. He’s like Dog Einstein. There is clearly a lot going on his head. Like me! We’d totally get along.”

“Stiles. You have fourteen dogs that are officially yours, and thirty-seven others that you feed, manage and exercise every day. As your father, I’m just wondering if there’s an upper limit or if I’m gonna be stuck with having only canines for grandchildren.”

“I swear I wouldn’t do this for just any shelter dog. Okay, I admit I’m probably getting a little ahead of myself here. Derek — his name’s Derek — might turn out to be unmanageable or aggressive or he might have weak wrists for all I know. In which case we could still use him for breeding purposes I guess. But I just want to give him a chance, you know? He’s a full grown, large dog of unknown provenance at the shelter, they’d probably end up having to putt him down. And I think it would be a real shame.”

“Have you talked to Kay about this?” his dad asked, which definitely sounded promising.

“Not yet,” Stiles admitted. “I was sort of hoping that she’d at least let me try keeping him at the kennel, but if she says no… well, I don’t know if he’ll turn out to be any kind of sled dog, so… hey, haven’t you ever wanted a pet around the house?”

John sighed the sigh of the long-suffering. “Well, it’s not like you don’t know how to take care of a dog. I just want you to be careful about how much you’re taking on. You’re training for your first big mid-length race pretty soon, you’re still in school, filling out college applications… It’s fair to give this dog a chance, but if he turns out to be a problem, just remember that you can’t save everyone. You have to take care of yourself first.”

“Yeah, dad, I know,” Stiles said. “If he’s terrible, I’ll take him back to the shelter, I promise.”

“Well, all right then,” his dad said. “Hope you don’t regret this, kid.”

Stiles couldn’t resist a celebratory fist-pump. “Yessss! You’re the best. But don’t think that this means I’m not bringing the veggie burgers right back tomorrow.”

John groaned.

* * *

When Stiles went to Kay’s the next day and gingerly brought up the subject of adding a new face to the kennel and specifically to Stiles’ team — a very handsome face, he made sure to emphasize — Kay only raised her eyebrows and said, “Sure. If you think he might be able to do the job, then we can give him a shot.”

His mouth opened in surprise. “Really? Just like that?”

She shrugged. “Yeah. At this point, you oughta have some sense of what you’re doing. And if it’s a disaster, then you’ll learn something from that too. Gotta loosen the tether at some point, kid, let you make some decisions.”

“Giving me enough just rope to hang myself with, huh? I see how it is,” Stiles said, though he couldn’t deny the little flush of pride at this display of trust.

Kay just grinned at him, her short hair and ruddy cheeks making her look impish despite her advancing middle age. “All right, now go muck out the kennel out in preparation for our new guest, eh? Don’t skimp with the mop, I saw you neglecting some corners last time.”

“Ugh, you slavedriver. I’m so onto you, Kay Locklear,” he said, narrowing his eyes, but he went off to get the broom with a light step and a warm feeling in his chest.

* * *

After school the next day, Stiles rushed to the shelter and pretty soon he was signing the last of the paperwork and handing the clipboard back to Joanna with a flourish. “All set! Now gimme the dog.”

“Someone’s excited,” she remarked dryly, but brought him back to the cages and got Derek out. The big black dog walked a full circle around Stiles, sniffing him intently. Stiles was struck all over again by the piercing, serious look in Derek’s eyes, not to mention the weird green color. He’d never seen eyes like that on a dog before.

Stiles got down on the floor to talk to Derek face to face. “Hey Derek. I’m Stiles. Time for some real talk. I’m gonna cut right through the bullshit. I know you don’t know me and I don’t really know you, I just thought you looked cool and you seem smart and all. Wanna come live with me and maybe run together with some other dogs and have a really awesome new life? Promise it’ll be way fun.”

The dog stared at him, totally still and quiet. It worried him a little. He was aware that the Stiles Experience could be kind of overwhelming at first. Maybe he’d warm up to Stiles over time.

“All right, well, let’s try it anyway,” he said, taking the leash and taking his new dog out of the shelter and into the long Alaskan winter twilight.

“Good luck!” Joanna called as he left. “You’ll probably need it!”

Wonderful.

As he drove towards the kennel, Derek loaded into the front seat of the Jeep, Stiles noticed the dog getting more tense, staring fixedly forward. He pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. Carefully, Stiles reached out, clearly telegraphing his actions, and laid his hand on Derek’s coarse-furred back.

It wasn’t immediately bitten off, that was definitely a good sign. The big sharp face turned, pinning Stiles with that intense gaze.

Stiles started up what he hoped was a soothing petting action. The dog didn’t move, but gradually seemed to lose the coiled, hard tension in his body. “Yeah, that’s good, right?” Stiles said. “Will you let me touch your head? I knew you’d be a good dog despite the scary looks, I am really thrilled you’re proving me right.”

Derek permitted Stiles’ hand to migrate up to his head and pat him around the ears. Maybe this wouldn’t end in tears after all.

Then, when he got Derek out of the car, things got… interesting.

The barking started bare seconds after the Jeep’s door closed. It sounded like every one of the fifty-one dogs in the fenced-off outdoor kennel area around the corner of the house had started baying at once. Sure, they usually got pretty excited when he arrived, since it meant food would be not long after, but never like _this_.

Stiles shortened the leash and led Derek round the corner. He stared. Every dog, staked out in its patch of territory next to an individual shelter, was awake and on its feet facing them, barking like Derek was a demonic entity.

_Was_ Derek a demonic entity? Stiles tried to detect any hint of creepy Exorcist-style possession, hellfire or other supernatural effects, but the dog remained rigidly composed in the face of this un-welcome.

Then Derek growled.

The sound seemed to reverberate somehow, feeling like it was bypassing his ears entirely and reaching directly into Stiles’ brain. It wasn’t _actually_ loud, but it _felt_ like a Superbowl stadium’s worth of noise, packed into a much smaller sound. Which didn’t make any sense, but that was the closest he could come to explaining the growl’s effect.

All the dogs fell silent.

Princess, staked close to the front, came forward to the end of her chain, neck outstretched, head cocked curiously. She was a reddish-furred husky, on the small side but tenacious and crazy smart. However, she wasn’t afraid of bigger dogs and gotten in the middle of a few fights before, so Stiles tensed, prepared to pull Derek back, even if there was a chain-link fence between the two animals.

Derek barked once — a surprisingly high pitched bark considering his size. Princess seemed to be considering this. Much to Stiles’ surprise, she lowered her front quarters in the universal dog gesture for playfulness and yipped back.

It was like the ice had broken. Bodies relaxed. Normal barking commenced — a few yaps here and there, unlike the earlier wall of sound. Dogs sat down, moved around, began socializing with each other rather than all staring at the newcomer. Derek sat and lolled out his tongue, surveying the scene like he was master of all he gazed upon.

“What the fuck just happened?” Stiles said, bemused, but the crisis seemed to be over and no one was dead and there hadn’t been any demons or supernatural entities, so he was willing to chalk it up as a win. “Good job quelling the insurrection,” he told Derek, who looked up at him and huffed what might have been a doggy laugh. “Let’s get you in there and really face the proletariat masses.”

* * *

Later that evening, Stiles had to endure Scott’s smug self-congratulations on the phone when he was forced to admit that yes, Scott had been right and the dog was pretty awesome. “Even though he’s probably going to be too big and have bad feet or something,” Stiles said warningly. “So this may still all end in tears!”

“Too _big_? Oh,” Scott said.

“You thought bigger was better, didn’t you,” Stiles said. “Scott, let me remind you that it is not the size of the boat but the motion of the ocean that counts.”

“Dick jokes, always your best material,” Scott said. “But seriously, I only thought you’d want him because he was, like, the biggest husky-looking sort of dog I’d ever seen.”

_Oh, Scott_. “Well, let’s just say you meant well and I _do_ like the dog despite his giant hulking frame, so thanks, buddy!”

“You’re welcome,” said Scott cheerfully, and moved smoothly into a detailed discussion of what he should get his girlfriend Allison for her upcoming birthday.

Stiles went to bed excited for the possibilities of familiarizing Derek with the kennel routines and introducing him to some of the equipment, and seeing him interact more with the other dogs. He’d seemed fine with his new situation — the stake and chain hadn’t bothered him, and he’d taken his portion of food without hesitation. Stiles was feeling pretty optimistic about it all.

So of course, because the universe hated him, the next morning Stiles arrived at the kennel to find a loose chain and no sign of Derek anywhere.

The other dogs greeted him as usual, like the newcomer had been some kind of prank or dream that was now finished.

Derek was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Derek opened his eyes at midnight to find himself naked and chained to a post. Not in a remotely sexy way, unfortunately.

At some point it had started snowing. Despite his nakedness he hardly felt the cold — his body retained a werewolf’s strength and healing, even though he could no longer control the shift between forms.

God, he hated witches.

He unhooked the collar from the chain and stood up. No lights glimmered from the house. A few dogs nearby poked their heads out of their shelters and regarded him curiously. They’d all known, of course, that he was no normal dog, but he’d been able to reassure them that he meant no harm and was just passing through, to the point that some of the younger pups earlier had kept trying to entice him to play.

Derek was not feeling terribly playful of late.

He climbed the chain-link fence easily and set out into the forest. The whole detour at the shelter had been oddly relaxing. He could have broken out of the cage there, but he hadn’t wanted to draw attention as an escaped, possibly dangerous animal; thus the confinement, so removed from his true predicament, had been both a frustration and a relief. It had been a minor problem that had nothing to do with who he was or what he’d done — something out of his control, temporarily absolving him from responsibility.

In any case, he’d been able to catch up on his sleep. And the kid who’d “adopted” him had been mildly amusing, if quite noisy. But now, the feeling of restlessness that had dogged him (ha) since Seattle returned in full force, driving him onward, towards the place that had once been home and pack and safety.

The scent of old charred wood led him forward.

 

By the time Derek reached the ruins of his family home, he had a half hour in human form left. He walked through the remains of the front hallway and the living room, searching for… something.

There had to be something.

The little voice that had been whispering _run home, run home, run_ in the weeks since the spell had fallen unhelpfully silent at last. The building looked so different from when they’d all lived there, it hardly registered as the same place. It evoked no memories except of the aftermath, when he and Laura had been called back to search through the rubble and identify singed items for the insurance claims adjusters.

Laura was going to be _so_ pissed. Derek tried not to wince just thinking about it. But he had no money and no clothes during the midnight hour he was in human form, and he couldn’t exactly work a phone when he was in wolf form. He hadn’t yet been able to come up with a way to let her know what had happened, without the risk of being seen.

At least as his alpha she would know that he was alive and unhurt, though he was far enough away that she couldn’t sense his location or direction. But he couldn’t go back to Seattle — _she_ was doubtless still there, watching.

He didn’t know what to do. It had all happened so fast, and he’d been focused on getting away from danger; and in the weeks following when he’d run the entire Pacific Coast, it had been all too easy not to think, to just be an animal with a predator at your heels. He’d come here because the animal wanted to return to its den. But this hadn’t been his home for years.

In the end, he walked through the crumbling rooms one by one, trying to see past the dirt and mire to the whole past where happy memories had been made. Trying to convince himself that they still existed.

At one a.m. sharp he turned back into a wolf. The collar with its tag, _Derek,_ re-formed around his neck with a little ping of magic, a pointed reminder that he was not free but a dog after all, her property, her creature.

Tired from the futile ache in his chest, he laid his head on his paws and slept.

 

Things failed to look any better when he woke up.

Derek ran aimlessly in the area around the house during the brief hours of daylight, halfheartedly hunting. He didn’t catch anything, though it felt good to run after the enforced rest at the shelter. But it made no difference. The house continued to be burned down. Everyone was still dead. Laura remained in danger. Derek stayed ensorcelled.

What he needed was help from someone who had hands for 24 hours per day. But there was no one left, even in the town where he had grown up, who he could trust enough to go to. No one who knew about werewolves or the supernatural, or the Law. He was alone, separated from his alpha, lost.

 

Derek spent another night in the house. He turned human at midnight. An hour later he changed back. He paced around in the woods in the dark. Watched the aurora dance in the sky above. Slept.

Obviously, this wasn’t going to work.

He’d come this far on instinct, but it had led him to a dead end. Well, there was, at least, one person who’d been interested in Derek in this town. Perhaps, eventually, it could somehow lead to a way to break the spell, or at least get a message to Laura. At this point, what did he have to lose?

He ran.

* * *

Stiles mopily rinsed out a bucket. He’d moped all day through classes. Scott had, in fact, called him a mopey-pants at lunch, which was pretty much the extent of Scott’s capability for insults. His dad had given him a hug before leaving for work and said, “Sorry you were dumped by a dog, kid. Best thing to do is get back on the horse and learn to love again, yeah?” to make him laugh. Kay had not been indulging his sense of despondency and hadn’t let up an iota on his chores, though she’d given him a cookie when he got to her place after school. 

He planned on taking the whole team out for a brief practice run for the afternoon — he did still have fourteen other dogs that loved him and never ran away, after all.

Except when he looked up, it was to see Derek staring back at him from the other side of the fence.

“Holy shit,” he said involuntarily, blinking hard. The vision didn’t go away. It really was him — you didn’t see that eye color every day. “You came back!”

The dog came right up to the gate when Stiles opened it, entered the main kennel without being coaxed, and didn’t even demur when Stiles fell upon him like an eight-year old girl glomping a beautiful pony.

“Oh my god, you came back,” Stiles said again, unable to contain his awe at the universe apologizing to him in this spectacular fashion. “Wow, I really wish you could tell me where you went! Sorry I’m so excited, this is just really great. This sort of thing doesn’t usually happen to me.”

Derek submitted to this treatment with dignity. He looked as badass as ever — with an extra air of mystery now that just added to his badassery.

Stiles got a bowl of dog food for him, with extra venison strips as a reward, and checked him over quickly. Derek seemed to have suffered no ill effects from his time in the wilderness. He even smelled pretty good, for a dog. Stiles couldn’t stop petting him, the feel of his coarse fur and the solidness of his body irrefutable proof that he was real, as incredible as it seemed.

Eventually Stiles forced himself to forbear. Derek had taken the handling with patience, but Stiles didn’t want to annoy him into running off again.

He couldn’t help but send a quick text to Kay, his dad and Scott: _DEREK CAME BACK. WIN!!!!_

Scott sent a message back within minutes: _cool!! r u the dog whisperer now or smthing_

His dad had not accepted texting as part of his phone repertoire, but Stiles expected a wry remark about on-again, off-again relationships later.

Kay was out doing errands, but also texted back: _Ha. Guess that hulking beast is smarter than he looks._

Stiles told Derek that one, and the dog whuffed loftily, like he was way above that kind of nonsense, but Stiles knew better.

After some consideration, Stiles decided to continue with the plan of going on a short run. He couldn’t sit around petting Derek all night, it would give the other dogs a complex. And there was the small matter of preparing for the 200 mile race that was happening all too soon.

In respect to Derek’s excellent display of loyalty, Stiles let him follow loose as Stiles went around gathering harnesses and generally getting everything ready, rather than staking him right away. This also allowed Derek to get reacquainted with the other dogs, in a flurry of generally friendly posturing and butt-sniffing, though Beast got too enthusiastic about jumping on the newcomer and Derek had to growl him into submission.

Stiles attached the gangline to the sled and then dogs to neck- and tuglines. He put Princess and Tony Stark as the lead dogs. Wally and Selina came next in the swing dog position, followed by the team dogs: Bobby and Buffy, Drake, Rogue, Harley, Bart, Mystique and Snotnose. He put Bruce Wayne and Beast last as the wheel dogs, both solid, bulky creatures with good sense.

(Overall, Stiles counted himself a DC guy, but he had a soft spot for the X-men.)

The dogs were full of energy, yipping in delight and pulling against the quick-release cable, though thankfully they restrained themselves from tangling the leads. Trails crisscrossed the woods abutting Kay’s property and the recent spate of flurries ensured that they were well-covered in clean powder. A brisk breeze blew through the trees — pretty good conditions overall.

He’d love to bring Derek along, but it was probably an especially poor idea to take the dog who had _just_ returned from running away from you on a run through the woods. Stiles grabbed Derek’s collar to bring him back to the kennel.

The dog twisted out of his grasp with rather worrying ease and trotted up beside the other dogs, looking back as if to say, _Well? You coming?_

“Ooookay… now you don’t want to be parted from my side, is that it? Funny, ‘cause you seemed pretty eager to get away, oh, two nights ago,” Stiles said. It did make him wonder if Derek was a sled dog after all. Which begged the question of how he’d ended up in a shelter, because you didn’t just let a good sled dog go.

There was an obvious answer, which was that he was a bad sled dog, but it was all speculation anyway so Stiles decided to go ahead and ignore that line of thought.

The other dogs were regarding Derek curiously — it was slightly surprising that no one had shown any signs of challenging Derek so far. Then again, the black dog did have a certain calm, intense aura — and he was gigantic compared to the others. Besides, many of Stiles’ other dogs were quite young, barely over two years old, and Derek looked… older than that, so perhaps it wasn’t that weird. Stiles wasn’t going to complain, especially when he had fifteen doggy faces looking back at him like he was an idiot for not letting them just run already.

Maybe it was dumb, but luck seemed to be on his side today. He got on the sled, popped the quick-release cable and belted out the command:

“HIKE!”

 

The dogs burst forward like birds flushed from cover, in a sudden release of power that never failed to thrill. Stiles felt their excitement at being strong and alive to the rhythm of the chase, the purity of running, and he shared in their joy.

He laughed out loud in sheer delight when he looked over and saw Derek’s fierce dark form bounding and leaping alongside, keeping pace easily.

Oh, this was going to be awesome.

They ran.

Stiles called out directions — haw for left, gee for right — and Princess and Tony led the way. She was _on_ today, responding to his commands perfectly and using her own sense to guide them around bends in the trail. She was so fucking smart — it was a pleasure to train her and watch her learn and work. Tony, well… he was doing well enough, occasionally looking to the side and pulling slightly off course, but generally he was keeping up.

They ran on smoothly, the trail cradled by firs and spruces and bathed by clear Alaskan air. Sometimes he couldn’t believe his luck, that this was his life and he got to do this as much as he wanted. At times like this, right now, he felt so happy that it made him a little bit afraid. Half-scared that it would have to end at some point.

They traveled without a hitch, settling into a steady, easy pace after the initial burst of enthusiasm wore off. Derek ran incredibly, singleminded in his movements; pursuing with a smooth lope, never falling behind or deviating from the team’s side.

Since he did still have school in the morning, Stiles didn’t keep them going for long at all, though he would have loved to go for a long night run. After about forty minutes, he slowed the team to a stop with a firm “Whoa!” and judicious application of the brakes.

Derek kept going.

Stiles watched the black dog bound away, a graceful collection of muscles and sinew flowing forward, seeming as unstoppable as a river. It was a gorgeous sight to watch, but he was already berating himself for being the biggest idiot who’d ever kept dogs. What the hell had he been thinking, of _course_ this was going to happen. Letting the dog run loose, was he _braindead?_ —

The run slowed to a trot, and then altogether. The dog stood there on the cusp of something unknown, barely within the illuminating range of Stiles’ headlamp; then Derek turned around and came back.

Stiles let out the breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Was the venison I gave you really that delicious, or is it just something about me you’re coming back for?” he asked the dog, half-joking but also kind of serious. He shook his head, wondering. Derek just looked at him, pale eyes solemn.

He let the dogs rest and roll around in the snow for a while, then turned them to the route that looped back to Kay’s house. En route, he pondered the problem of Derek. Stiles wasn’t sure he could handle the emotional rollercoaster if the dog was going to keep leaving and coming back. And it was pretty clear that ordinary chains and fences were no obstacle to Derek.

Kay had gotten home by the time the team arrived back at the kennel and was unloading supplies from her truck. Stiles could see her raise her brows when she saw Derek trotting along freely.

“How’d it go?” she asked, coming over to help him unharness the cables.

“Really good!” Stiles said. No need to mention the Derek incident — he didn’t need Kay to think Stiles was a moron who took stupid risks, even if he clearly was. “This guy stayed close the whole way. I’ve got high hopes.”

“He’s gotta eat like a horse,” Kay pointed out, “but for a mid-distance race I guess a few extra pounds of food won’t make much difference.”

“Princess did really well today too. I think Selina stumbled a bit at one point though,” Stiles said. “Otherwise I kept it short and easy but it seemed like they were having fun the whole way.”

“Check her feet, and Derek’s. You really oughta work on training another lead dog as backup, you know.”

“Yeah, well, it sounds so easy when you put it like that,” Stiles said. He rapidly checked over the feet of all the dogs — Selina looked fine now, her wrists normal, no signs of swelling or pain. Kay helped him unharness all the dogs and bring them into the kennel where Stiles staked all them out and gave them all snacks and water.

“I’m going to try bringing Derek home with me at nights,” Stiles told Kay. “I don’t want to risk him running away again, it’s going to give me a heart attack.”

“Probably shouldn’t have let him free run then,” she said dryly. “But sure, as long as your dad’s okay with it. It’s your dog.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure Derek knows that,” Stiles said. “But I’m trying to convince him. And he was great today! I had a good feeling, it totally worked out, so I scorn your wise counsel.” Kay just shook her head, smiling.

He fed the dogs and mucked out the kennel as quickly as possible — he’d got it pretty much down to a science at this point. After one final check around the kennel, Stiles gathered up some supplies, attached a leash to Derek’s collar and led him around to the Jeep. “Enjoy your special status,” Stiles told him. “You get to sleep in a warm house if you restrain yourself from destroying anything.” Derek jumped into the front seat and turned to stare haughtily at Stiles. “Yeah, that look won’t work on me,” Stiles said. “Chew up any shoes or whatever and I’ll… totally think of some kind of punishment that you will not enjoy!”

The sheriff was home when Stiles arrived. The look on his face when he caught sight of Derek was worth any amount of potential reproach. “That is not a small animal,” he said at last.

“You did say that I could bring him to the house,” Stiles said. “It’s on the record.”

“Can you… keep him in the yard?” John said.

“If he can get out of the kennel, he can get out of the yard, and that is what we are trying to avoid,” Stiles said firmly. “I’m banking on the hope that he can’t unlock doors yet.”

“Oh Christ,” said his dad. “Well, luckily everyone knows this is the sheriff’s house. If anybody tried breaking in, we’d find a mangled corpse in the living room come morning.”

“See, the benefits are enormous!” Stiles said. “He’s enhancing safety. Good dog. Go on, try petting him. Despite his somewhat threatening countenance, I think you’ll find it surprisingly soothing.”

His dad glanced at Derek. “Maybe I’ll give it a shot tomorrow when he’s more used to me.”

“Your loss,” said Stiles, “he’s a big fluffy bunny really,” and went about giving Derek the grand tour. The dog took it all in stride, examining each room in detail, sniffing around thoroughly like he was scoping out the terrain.

Derek didn’t try begging at the dinner table, which rather pleased Stiles. Sled dogs were athletes and had to stay on a strict diet. “I think he’s merely aware that there is no red meat involved in this meal,” John pointed out, to which Stiles returned his best _bitch, please_ face.

Afterwards, Stiles powered through his homework while Derek paced around the entire house once, then came and laid down within view in the living room. He also followed when Stiles retired upstairs, but Stiles stopped him at the threshold of the bedroom and kind of closed the door in his face. While it might have been marginally safer to keep Derek in sight, 10:30 PM was masturbation o’clock and Stiles was totally not comfortable with the dog watching him. _Waaayyy_ too weird.

Jerking off took all of twenty minutes, then Stiles cracked the door open in case the dog wanted to come in and settled in with the laptop for an exciting night of derping around on the internet. Somewhere between scrolling through Reddit and watching a trailer for some upcoming shooter, Stiles dozed off.

 

The door’s quiet creak drew Stiles out of sleep. He started up blearily and could dimly make out the dark animal form, halted in the doorway.

“It’s okay, you can come in,” he said, after nothing happened. He groped for his phone to check the time — right around midnight — then laid back down, listening to the soft pad of feet entering the room. He’d just closed his eyes when he perceived an equally quiet but altogether different and weird sound. A bizarre… _susurrus_. Sort of like a lot of of hair, rippling against itself. Stiles sat up.

Which was when something clamped hard over his mouth and bore him back onto the bed with a thump.

“Don’t scream,” a voice said very quietly, yet with impressive menace. Stiles sucked in breath in preparation to totally disregard this piece of advice, when the voice continued, “It’s me. Derek. The dog.”

Were it not for the hand over his mouth Stiles would have pointed out the insanity of this claim, but the voice continued, “Wolf, actually. Well. Werewolf. Look, can I let you go now? _Don’t_ scream. I’m not going to hurt you. Unless you scream.”

Oh, well, that was reassuring.

Stiles nodded anyway, because if he had a superpower it was talking his way into but also, usually, out of trouble. The hold on his face loosened. He whispered urgently, “I’m not gonna scream, because you’re fucking terrifying. But did you know that my dad has a gun and will probably not hesitate to shoot my murderer?”

“Yes, which is why I came in here, in case he woke up while I was shifted. Stiles, listen. I’m Derek. I’m stuck as a wolf except for one hour at midnight each day. This is my human form. It’s a spell. You know. Magic.”

“Magic.”

“Yep.”

What could you even say to that? Silence reigned momentarily while Stiles tried to come up with something logical, but concluded that it was basically a logic-free situation. He said instead, “Could we get some light in here? I would like to see the face of the crazy person in my room.”

The guy sighed. Stiles heard him go over and shut the door all the way. Then the lamp on the side table clicked on.

“Holy fuck, giant naked dude!” Stiles hissed, staring.

“Would’ve looked pretty stupid as a dog wearing clothes,” said the naked dude standing next to the bed. Well, naked except for the _collar_.

Stiles tore his gaze away from the frankly ridiculous abs (was that a _ten-pack?_ How…?) up to the guy’s face, which… wow. Moving past the absurdity of finding a like, male model in one’s room at midnight, Stiles found himself kind of believing that the guy might actually be Derek. His eyes were the exact same weird shade of green-gray. And the annoyed look on his face reminded Stiles exactly of dog-Derek’s annoyed, haughty glare. And he was reaching up and unfastening the collar around his neck, which had a little metal tag that Stiles suspected had _Derek_ etched into it.

The guy dropped the collar on the floor and continued glaring at Stiles.

“Okay,” Stiles said slowly. “So… you’re a werewolf.”

The guy — Derek — looked maybe a little surprised as he said, “Yes. It’s usually a better deal than right now.”

“It’s not normal werewolf practice, this wolf by day, human at midnight thing? It’s very… Swan Lake.”

Derek scowled. “No. Normally, it’s the ‘wolf whenever you feel like it, especially around the full moon’ thing. As you would expect.”

“Wow. Okay, that’s a pretty sweet deal,” Stiles said. “Umm… I would feel significantly better about this whole situation if you put some clothes on, by the way.” He pointed at the dresser.

Derek continued to look annoyed, but went and put on boxers and threw on a t-shirt for good measure. Stiles manfully tried not to stare.

“Sorry about any embarrassing or incriminating stuff I may have said when I thought you were a dumb animal,” Stiles said. “And for uh, treating you like a sled dog. Wow, you ate sled dog food even though it looks like vile meat-mud. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Derek said. “Tastes okay when you’re a wolf.”

“What’s with the collar? If it wasn’t for that, everyone would probably have thought you were a wolf and left you alone.”

“It’s the spell.” And that was all Stiles was going to get, apparently.

“So… any way to break this spell?” he said cautiously, when no other words were forthcoming. “I’m assuming that you’re not happy with the current situation. Who put it on you? What’s the deal?”

Derek opened his mouth. Nothing came out except a faint hiss of breath.

His expression became even more disgruntled, which was kind of amazing to watch, but he kept trying, clearly struggling to force out the words. To no avail.

Taking pity on Derek’s plight, Stiles said, “Um, seems like you’re under a magical geas, maybe? G-E-A-S, not the bird. You know, a taboo. The first rule of Fight Club is you can’t talk about Fight Club, sort of thing. You _know_ how to break the spell though?”

Derek managed a half-nod despite the geas, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at Stiles. “You know about magic? The Law?”

“There’s _laws_? Are we talking laws of physics here, or like… government laws? Because the idea of a supernatural shadow government is _really_ cool, though right now, kind of frightening in its plausibility. Oh,” Stiles said belatedly, “no, I didn’t know anything about magic actually _existing_. I’ve just read possibly more than my fair share of fantasy-slash-mythology type books.”

Derek’s shoulders slumped a touch, and he sat down right on the floor, cross-legged, in his boxers and borrowed t-shirt, a picture of despondency. “Yes, the government type of Law. I’m not supposed to talk about that either, but at least I’m physically able to, so why the fuck not.” He sighed again. “It’s not very centralized, but someone has to keep all us monsters in line. Thus, the Law.”

“Huh, wow, okay. Hnng, so many questions! How long have you been under this spell?” Stiles said, trying to prioritize.

“Almost two months. I came from Seattle.”

“What, like, in a… plane…?”

Derek furrowed his (truly spectacular) brows at Stiles. “No. I ran.”

Stiles gibbered inwardly. How incredibly tragic was it that Derek had turned out to be a bewitched human? If he’d really been a dog, Stiles would’ve _so_ been a contender for the Iditarod next year. He managed to say, “Wow.” (Stiles realized he was dumbly going _wow_ a lot in this conversation. In his defense, it seemed like an appropriate response for everything he was hearing.) “But… why? I mean, why come all the way up here?”

“I used to live here,” Derek said distantly. “I had to leave Seattle and I had nowhere better to go.”

Ooookay. Stiles judged it wiser not to stroll down that avenue of conversation. Instead, he said, “Okay, so, what now? What I mean is, I can’t exactly go on treating you like a dog and trying to get you to pull a sled, that seems… demeaning? But maybe I can help you break the spell or whatever, right? I can’t just leave you all ensorcelled.”

“Why not?”

“What… really, dude?” But Derek was _serious_ , gazing up at Stiles solemnly from his hunched position on the floor. Stiles stared back. “Because that would be a shitty thing to do. Besides, I’m still stuck on the part where magic is real. Totally kickass, no way I’m leaving that alone. You may have noticed I have many questions, and I demand answers.”

Derek gazed intently at Stiles, searching his face and apparently finding what he was looking for, because he nodded. “Okay. First of all, I need to write to my sister and tell her about all this. Or call her. But I don’t want her to be able to track where I am.”

“Why not? Does she know you’re a werewolf?”

“Of course, she’s one too. Laura’s the alpha, though at this point, the pack is just me and her. And, because it’s too dangerous. The witch who did this to me threatened to kill Laura if I didn’t stay away, and if Laura knew where I was, she’d come find me even if I told her not to.”

Stiles considered this. “Hmm. You could send her an untraceable e-mail, that should be easy to do. Letters can be traced to where they’re posted, untraceable calls are more complicated, I think. I could probably figure out a way if you want to actually talk to her, buy a prepaid phone or something. But I’d have to do some research.”

“E-mail would be a start.”

Stiles checked the time. They had about thirty minutes left before Derek became four-legged once again. He pulled up his laptop, performed some rapid Google-fu and had presently downloaded and installed an anonymous remailer e-mail client. “Okay, here we go,” he muttered to himself. “The other option would be to use a browser that routs through encrypted proxy servers and then just use your regular e-mail account, since you’re not after anonymity. But I’m not sure how easy it would be to set up a really secure system, so this is faster.”

Derek shrugged. “We lived in the same apartment, so I never had to e-mail Laura before. She wouldn’t recognize any e-mail address as ‘mine.’”

“All right then, create an account and go to town,” Stiles said, handing him the computer. Derek got up off the floor and set himself up at Stiles’ desk, sitting in Stiles’ chair and focusing on the screen. Something about the sight of the large, muscular man peering at the laptop, brows drawn in total seriousness and tapping away at the keys took on a faintly comical quality and Stiles suppressed a totally inappropriate laugh.

He also tried not to think about how he sometimes privately referred to that particular chair and desk as his masturbatorium. Derek probably wouldn’t appreciate the knowledge. Instead, he took stock of the situation.

Stiles was good at finding things out — doing research was kind of his thing. Maybe he could locate some resources on real live magic and figure out at least how to overcome the geas that was preventing Derek from speaking about how to break the spell. In the meantime, it would be weird if he stopped trying to train his new dog in the ways of pulling a sled, at least right away. They could keep up the pretense for a week or two, Stiles would conclude that Derek wasn’t cut out for the life and then… what? Keep him as a ‘pet’ until they broke the spell? Should he tell his dad? No — a witch had put this spell on Derek and according to him, she was dangerous. Derek had to stay hidden, on the down-low. It would be safer if no one knew.

He watched Derek write to the mysterious Laura, feeling a little like he was intruding but unable to stop his eyes from sliding over to the bespelled werewolf in the room, because: A) this was the most interesting thing to happen to Stiles in years, B) Derek was a supernatural being, besides which, C) he was _seriously_ hot. Derek typed smoothly and rapidly despite frequent stops and deletions, which sort of surprised Stiles (he tried to imagine Derek honing his keyboarding skills by online chatting, or writing blog posts. The mind boggled.)

Finally, with less than five minutes before 1 a.m., Derek made a last click and pushed the laptop away. “All right,” he said. He sounded tense. He turned and looked over his shoulder at Stiles. “Thank you,” he said, shortly.

“Oh, uh… no problem. Least I can do, really.” He was dying to know what Derek had written and if he’d mentioned the whole mistaken-for-sled-dog scenario, but just because he’d accidentally stumbled into Derek’s troubles probably didn’t mean he deserved access to Derek’s correspondence. “Maybe your sister will have some ideas on what to do. Like, someone we can talk to who knows about magic.”

“I don’t want to get you more involved,” Derek demurred. “It could be dangerous.”

“Well, no, I’m not a fan of danger or risking my life or my tender young limbs. But you need help. And I’m the only one around with around-the-clock access to useful features like opposable thumbs and the ability to speak, so. I’m gonna help.”

At this, Derek’s lips maybe quirked the tiniest possible tick upwards. “You’re a weird kid,” he said, only.

“Me, weird? You’re the magic werewolf here!” Stiles protested. “In fact — oh!”

Derek was falling forward out of the chair, dropping onto his hands and knees, and he was changing at speed — fur sprouting, limbs rearranging, tail unfurling like a flag. It made far less noise than Stiles would have expected from a total transformation of one’s skeleton and muscles and such, no cracking bones or innards squelching, just the low susurrus.

A few seconds later, the big black dog — no, wolf — stood there. And yes, he did look incredibly silly as a wolf wearing a t-shirt and boxers. But then Stiles watched in amazement as the collar Derek had earlier removed and dropped on the floor seemed to dissolve in place, and then reappeared, fastened around Derek’s neck.

“That is one crazy fucking spell,” Stiles said, with feeling, and helped get the clothes off the wolf. Derek endured this, then settled himself on the floor and laid his head on his paws. Stiles figured if he was in Derek’s place, he’d be sick and tired of all the bullshit too.

“Well… good night,” he said lamely. Derek closed his eyes and ignored him, so Stiles clicked off the lamp and laid back on his bed, trying to slow the torrent of thoughts and speculations percolating in his head.

Whole eons passed by as he failed to sleep, but the quiet, slow breath of the sleeping wolf next to the bed wafted somnolence gently around and at last Stiles drifted off.


	3. Chapter 3

From: derek@remailer.com  
To: laura.hale@gmail.com  
Date: Thurs, Dec 13, 2012 at 12:56 AM  
Subject: Laura, don’t flip out.  
Message:  
Laura,

This is Derek. I’m sorry I disappeared like I did. And that I haven’t gotten word to you before this. It’s not ALL my fault this time, I promise. By the way, you were right about you-know-who. Guess what, she’s a witch. And yes, naturally, I’ve been put under a spell. It could have been worse. She could have turned me into a cat. Instead I’m just stuck as a wolf except for one hour at midnight each day. Yes, I am aware that it’s not very creative.

There is a way to break the spell, but I can’t talk about it. Literally can’t. My fingers lock up when I try to type anything related to it. And it doesn’t matter because it’s not going to happen anyway. It’s definitely not something you can help me with. Maybe there’s some other way. Didn’t you know a witch in college? Maybe ask her about spellbreaking? But BE CAREFUL. I don’t think you-know-who (spell won’t let me say her name. Let’s just refer to her as Voldemort from now on.) will attack you unless she finds out you’re helping me. I know sneaking is not your forte but at least TRY. Please.

I am somewhere safe. You don’t need to know any more than that. I don’t need you barging in and getting a spell put on you too, or worse. Don’t bother trying to trace this e-mail, I was actually careful this time. You can e-mail back to [dhale@gmail.com](mailto:dhale@gmail.com) as this client doesn’t receive replies.

I will be in touch. Don’t worry. I’m fine. Being a wolf most of the day really isn’t that bad.

Love,  
Your idiot brother

 

Laura closed her mouth with a snap.

Derek was such. An. _IDIOT!_

At least he knew it. She wondered if he was telling the truth about the e-mail being untraceable. The Derek she knew had a five-year old Dell laptop and wouldn’t know the difference between PGP and a PS3.

Someone was helping him, that was clear. She was curious how he’d managed that. Derek wasn’t the most personable guy in the universe. To put it lightly.

Luckily, Laura was coming off an uneventful 24-hour shift at the firehouse and had two days off ahead to put some thought into what to do about her errant little brother.

When had Derek gotten so good at evading her? The days of playing hide-and-seek and werewolf tag when they were kids had taught him some wiles, apparently. Two months ago, she’d come home to their shared apartment, tired from an severely overtime shift that had involved putting out quite a large fire — only to find the place empty. Not normal, stepped-out-for-groceries empty, but _empty_ empty, and a smell of sulfur and magic in the air. Derek’s phone and all his stuff still there, but he himself _gone_. She realized then that she’d felt distress through the pack bond — earlier, way too many hours ago, when she’d been pretty damn occupied with charging into a burning building.

Laura had still been able to feel him then, stressed and worried but alive, and not in immediate danger. That had at least taken the edge off her terror. She’d tracked him north of the city, but the trail was cold and something had covered up the scent and she couldn’t _find_ him. Since then he’d just been getting farther and farther away.

She’d called everyone she knew, drove around Washington state in an ever-widening radius to try and pick up some hint of a trail, even asked a witch she knew to cast a scrying spell. The bowl of water the witch used to raise the image had almost resolved into a picture — then a sudden burst of outside magic hit and all the water had instantly boiled away into a rising ball of steam.

The witch hadn’t been able to kick Laura out of her studio fast enough, after that.

Now all she could sense was a faint touch of presence at the back of her mind, scant reassurance of _he’s still alive, he’s alive, somewhere out there._ She certainly hadn’t let it go — had begun researching summonings and manifestations with the notion of calling up some entity (ghost? Demon? Would she summon one of _them_ to find Derek?) and getting some answers. But as long as he was alive, she had time.

And now this. Well, it was a lot better than some of the scenarios Laura had imagined. The fear that had wrapped around her heart in these past weeks, so constant that she had stopped noticing it, finally began to loosen ever so slightly.

You-know-who. Hah! Laura knew there’d been something up with that woman. Hadn’t suspected her of being a witch, much less one this evidently powerful. But something about her had always rung false to Laura, even when she was playing the sweet girlfriend.

Derek had confided to Laura, a few weeks before he disappeared, that something was missing despite good chemistry in the bedroom (Laura had punched him and told him never to speak to her of his sex life again). They’d only been dating for a month or two. At which point he’d dumped her and stopped taking her calls.

Laura wondered if all this was ultimately a case of “hell hath no fury like a witch scorned.”

She pulled up her computer and tried to organize her thoughts.

 

From: laura.hale@gmail.com  
To: dhale@gmail.com  
Date: Fri, Dec 14, 2012 at 5:47 PM  
Subject: RE: Laura, don’t flip out.  
Message:  
DEREK,

YOU FUCKING MORON, why the fuck did you run away. Im supposed to protect you you idiot. I’m your alpha, you don’t just go off into the unknown like that. We’re stronger together, fuckass!!! We couldve figured something out, aint no witch gonna take the two of us together. Shitty fuckballs, I’m so sorry I couldn’t come when you needed me. You know I’d come find you if I could, but someone’s been teaching you some new tricks. I’m gonna find out everything about spellbreaking that I possibly can. Ill keep it on the down low ok? I’m not that bad at sneaking! I can sneak. A pair of $200 Nike fucking sneakers aint as sneaky as I can be when I want to. We’re gonna fix this.

I’m really, REALLY glad youre not being tortured or experimented on or electrocuted or turned into a werezombie. You have no idea how worried I was about that last one.

Love,  
Your most sagacious sister

PS I knew that sly broad was bad news!!! I TOLD YOU SO, now will you listen to your big sister’s excellent advice in future?

 

Laura hit send and began formulating a plan of attack. She’d made the acquaintance of a few occult ladies in her day. A few might even not hex her on sight.

Whatever, she had some favors to call in, some supernatural bribes to offer, maybe a few threats to deliver. Shit was gonna go _down_.

She was getting her brother back.

 

Stiles looked at the bag of high-performance dog food.

He looked at Derek. Who was looking back steadily.

One might even say he was glaring.

Fuck, it was really weird knowing that there was human intelligence in there. Granted, there’d always seemed to be more than an average dog-brain behind those gray-green eyes. But now that he knew the truth, he really wasn’t sure how Derek would feel about being fed kibble. Stiles certainlywouldn’t want to eat kibble, even if it was full of nourishing and well-balanced protein and vitamins.

“Do you want, like… a breakfast sandwich, maybe?” he hazarded.

Derek rolled his eyes theatrically, then looked pointedly at the dog food.

“Fine, if you say so,” Stiles said, and poured some into a bowl. He put it down on the floor. Derek ate it.

Stiles supposed Derek didn’t want to get fat from eating human food unsuited for his current body. Fair enough. It would be practically a crime to ruin that physique. He took a moment to appreciate the memory, then shook his head.

“Umm… wanna watch TV or something while I eat my breakfast? Or go outside? Read the newspaper? Ha, who am I kidding, no one reads newspapers,” Stiles said.

Derek completely ignored him, settling himself on the floor, facing away from Stiles. Oh, so that’s how it was gonna be. This was some awkward morning after.

At least it was Friday. Stiles couldn’t imagine enduring more than six hours of school right now, considering all the things he had on his mind. Witches and spells were not what he needed to be thinking about, what with Tustumena only a month and a half away. Also, college applications were something he should probably be starting to consider. Ha.

After bolting down some breakfast, he poked Derek with his foot just to get his attention and said, “So, I gotta go to school. Want to stay here, or I could drop you off at the kennel on my way? I usually go right there after school too, to take care of the dogs. Figure it might be more interesting there than sitting around here.”

In reply Derek stood up and went over to the door, still without really looking Stiles in the face. Eloquent. Stiles grabbed his coat and backpack and faced the way depressing pitch darkness outside, making his way through some errant snowdrifts to get to the Jeep. Derek followed him into the vehicle.

Kay was up and feeding the dogs when Stiles pulled into her driveway and let Derek out. “How’d it go?” she asked when she saw him come round the corner.

It did not escape Stiles’ attention that Derek was staring him down, like he was ready to tear out some throats if Stiles breathed a word of the magical shenanigans he’d stumbled into last night. “Totally fine,” he said, rather annoyed at the lack of trust. “He’s still here this time, isn’t he? But I learned that he snores like an old man with a pneumonia.”

“Huh. Hope he doesn’t have allergies.”

“I dunno, if it keeps up I’ll have to take him to the vet. Maybe they’ll give him some shots. Painful ones,” Stiles said, glaring back at Derek, who narrowed his eyes but quit looking quite so threatening. “Anyway, mind if I put him here while I’m at school? He ought to get to know the team, anyway. I already fed him, so don’t give him any more. Don’t want him getting fat.”

“Not much danger of that,” Kay said, eying Derek. Good thing she was well used to Stiles saying weird stuff. “But sure, not like we haven’t got the space.” 

Stiles brought Derek to the area he’d been staked at before, next to Wally and Snotnose, who both faced Derek with interest while eagerly watching for Kay to come with food.

“Oh come on, don’t look at me like that, you totally deserved that,” Stiles said in an undertone as he knelt in close to attach Derek’s collar to the chain. Derek looked grumpy. But then again, maybe that was just his face. “Listen, I am really good at keeping secrets, I’ll have you know. Just trust me, okay?”

Stiles stood and brushed snow off his pants. Within two seconds, Snotnose came up as close as his chain would allow and attempted to sniff Derek’s butt. Stiles tried not to laugh. Derek might find his day more interesting than expected.

“Snotnose, this is Derek. Derek, meet Snotnose, your new best friend. In fact, I expect to see you making at least fourteen new friends by the time I get back,” Stiles told the big black dog, who towered over the huskies like a dark, gloomy mountain over a range of gently rolling fluffy hills. He headed back to the Jeep, petting a number of furry heads along the way and waving to Kay. Derek watched him go.

* * *

Classes were indeed just this side of intolerable, and sometimes tipped over into torturous. Stiles doodled up a storm, covering the margins of handouts, homework sheets and a pop quiz with shitty scribbles of black dogs, cackling crones with pointy black hats, and little bolts of magic. He couldn’t help it — his mind just kept turning over all the things Derek had said and hinted at last night, and his pencil just followed along.

“You okay, dude?” Scott asked him at lunch. “You’ve been distracted all day.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just really don’t want to be here right now,” Stiles admitted. “AP Econ doesn’t match up to racing with a bunch of sled dogs in the fun-ness quotient.” Or with the supernatural, but Stiles definitely couldn’t tell Scott about that unless he wanted word to get out so fast he’d get whiplash.

Scott nodded. He liked dogs, thus his job as a vet’s assistant, but his mom was allergic so he hadn’t gotten sucked into mushing when Stiles had. But Scott fully acknowledged that mushing was awesome and always backed Stiles up when someone got him going about how it should totally be an Olympic sport. “Are you gonna be out all weekend, you think?” Scott asked.

“Yeah, I was going to do an overnight run,” Stiles said. Though that plan had been made when his life had been considerably less complicated. Should he take an enchanted werewolf on an extended run? Or leave him unsupervised at home? “Probably. Unless I don’t. I dunno.” 

“I have no idea how you get all your homework done considering you’re out in the woods like every free minute of every day,” Scott remarked.

“What can I say, I’m a master of the extremely rushed yet overly verbose midnight essay,” Stiles said, then wondered if Derek was any good at math and whether he could maybe help do calculus homework. He was, after all, getting free room and board and possibly spellbreaking assistance out of Stiles. A couple of problem sets in return seemed like a fair bargain. “Anyway, you’re with Allison for pretty much every free minute you can manage.”

“True,” Scott grinned dopily, getting the look on his face that meant he was thinking about how great it was that he was allowed to touch Allison’s boobs. “Hey, are you gonna take Derek for training? Think you’ll be able to use him for the big race?”

“I dunno. He’s a weird… animal,” Stiles said. “I haven’t really figured out what to do with him yet.”

“Just saying, if he turns out to be the reason you win the T200, I want you to remember who introduced you,” Scott said. “Don’t forget me when he makes you rich and famous.”

“Sure. But it’ll also be your fault if he turns out to be the death of me. Which, trust me, is way more likely at this point.” If Scott only knew the half of it.

The rest of the day crawled by at an unendurable rate. Finally, _finally_ it was over. Stiles absconded like a hare fleeing a slavering, well, wolf. Except he was running _towards_ the wolf.

Maybe that ought to worry him more than it did.

* * *

Derek flattened his ears back, raised his lips to show his teeth and even let out a short growl. A threat like that from a werewolf would subdue any canine.

Except this one, apparently.

Snotnose, Derek’s new nemesis.

The dog continued wagging his tail in truly idiotic fashion, grinning at Derek. The husky was on the small side, with black and white fur. He looked like there was sheepdog in his ancestry somewhere, which came with sheepdog energy but, Derek was certain, _not_ sheepdog-level intelligence.

The dog had spent at least an hour trotting in a circle, pacing the perimeter of his space and visiting all the dogs within reach, greeting everyone with enthusiastic face-licking when permitted. Derek had rejected every gesture towards playfulness so far — to no effect whatsoever. Snotnose kept trying, with the persistence of the genuinely daft.

It was so distracting. Derek had a lot to think about, from his e-mail to Laura and hoping it wouldn’t push her into acting recklessly and getting into danger; worrying about whether Stiles could keep his mouth shut or if by tomorrow, some Warden of the Law would sweep in and forcibly restore ignorance of the supernatural to everyone in town; pondering his dilemma and the impossibility of the prescribed cure which he couldn’t tell anyone about anyway; hoping “Voldemort” hadn’t caught up to him, and so on. But it proved difficult to brood about these things with an unusually dumb creature incessantly sniffing and bounding around.

At least the dog on the other side of Derek, another black and white husky but bigger than Snotnose, acceded to Derek’s wishes and didn’t bother him. Much more sensible.

The woman who owned the kennel came around, playing with some dogs and petting others, and eventually made her way around to Derek.

“Well, you’re a striking beast,” she remarked, hands on hips. She looked to be in her late fifties or early sixties, with short silver hair and coppery skin. “No idea why Stiles is so taken with you, though. You look like you’re much more trouble than you’re worth, dog.”

Well, Derek couldn’t disagree with that.

The woman knelt down and slowly but steadily ran her hand down Derek’s sides — inspecting him, he supposed. He let her look at each foot in turn and lift open his jaw to check his teeth. She gazed into his face with penetrating brown eyes, then huffed a short laugh. “Well, like mother like son I guess. Just can’t help trying to fix up the ones that nobody else wants. You’re lucky, dog. Don’t screw this up for him, right?” And with that she was up and on her way again.

Derek watched her collect a number of dogs and harness them to a sled, curious despite himself in the process. All the dogs clearly lived to run, just as when he’d followed Stiles’ team on that brief time yesterday, when he’d almost forgotten himself and kept on going like he’d been doing for so many weeks. The energy of the dogs as they took off was infectious, making Derek itch to be on his feet with a clear path ahead of him and nothing to think about except running.

The woman and her team were still out when the distinctive sound of the Jeep’s engine announced Stiles’ return. The kid burst around the corner like he half-expected to find waste and carnage everywhere, then skidded to a stop. “Right,” Derek heard him say, sounding relieved.

Stiles went about mucking up waste and cleaning the kennel, talking to practically every dog along the way. Derek noticed that he spoke to all of them like he was speaking to a human. At least his behavior with Derek wouldn’t stand out. A constant stream of talk, such as: “Hey, Miss Harley, did you have a great afternoon hanging with your BFF? I know you guys probably sit and gossip about all kinds of pack drama. Yes, I absolutely brought you the squeaky octopus, I know for a fact it’s your favorite toy. I live but to serve, my lady.”

Once finished with those chores, Stiles collected a number of dogs and brought them to a fenced-off pen within the larger kennel yard, where he let them loose to socialize and run. He headed towards Derek.

“Sooo…” Stiles said when he arrived at Derek’s stake. Derek stared at him fiercely, willing him to understand that Snotnose was going to drive Derek around the bend. Stiles laughed. “Okay, sorry. But I thought it might get your mind off stuff. C’mon, come meet more of my little pack.”

Derek stiffened, fur standing on end. _Pack?_ This was _not_ pack. But Stiles was unchaining his collar, oblivious, and bringing him around to the pen where the other dogs were greeting each other and reaffirming everybody’s status within the group. Derek stalked past the gathering and laid down on the far side of the pen, a hot rush of anger welling up, sudden and overwhelming. He needed to be alone, away from these… _dogs_. A hapless brown female husky tried approaching him and he loosed a snarl so feral that she shied back several feet in surprise.

“Derek?” he heard Stiles say, sounding just… confused. He could feel his ears flattening against his head, without his really meaning to. The kid had _no idea_ …

And then up came Snotnose, tail held low and wagging in a more subdued fashion, crouching near the ground, amiable and submissive. The body language seemed to completely bypass Derek’s human thoughts and connect straight with the wolf, so clearly did it say _Harmless, friendship, kindness_. Something in the gesture broke through Derek’s rage. He stood and allowed the dog to nose at his jaw and lick at his face, and found it strangely soothing, letting the anger drain away till just melancholy remained.

This wasn’t pack — the pack he’d grown up in, immersed in an old, tightly held tradition of secrecy but also immense strength, nor was there the bond that connected him to his family’s wellspring of warmth so that he’d always known in his core, been able to constantly _feel_ their love and understanding. It wasn’t that.

But it was what was here.

Derek let out a breath, and then another, and went to face the others.

 

Stiles kept one eye on the dogs as he did homework. Aside from that… _moment_ with Derek earlier, all was calm on the front besides the minor rituals of displaying aggression and submission. He noticed that Derek never even really needed to demonstrate dominance — the other dogs simply never challenged it, even Princess, who generally got her way among the team through sheer assertiveness despite her smaller size. He supposed it was a werewolf thing.

Kay got back from her run with one of her teams and Stiles helped her unharness and stake the dogs, as well as taking his team back to their individual areas, then doled out food to the entire kennel. Before he left for the night, Kay asked, “You still going for that long run tomorrow?”

“I’d better, time is kind of running out, as you’ve mentioned, oh, once or twice,” Stiles said.

She nodded. Kay had entered the Tustumena race for the past three years, and placed second in the last one, but she’d decided to skip this year due to a recent bad bout of flu. Still, she had ample experience racing in general and the T200 specifically, and had been warning (he chose not to call it nagging, because she would punch him in the arm) Stiles that he needed to get more miles under his dogs’ feet.

“You should take the new guy,” she suggested.

“Huh, why do you say that?” said Stiles, surprised. He would have imagined her counseling not to bother rushing to train Derek for the upcoming race but to take his time with an unknown quantity.

“Hmm. Well, it’s just a bit of a feeling,” Kay said, reflectively, “but watching him today, I thought… that dog is a working dog. He wants something to do, give him some purpose. He’s in fine shape, seems intelligent, good feet, good appetite. Might surprise us, eh?”

“Huh,” Stiles said, slightly nonplussed. “Your reasoning is sound. Sure, I’ll take him and see what happens.”

Shortly thereafter he took his leave, with Derek in tow. The wolf followed quietly, though Stiles couldn’t tell if he was being more withdrawn than usual, or if this _was_ Derek as usual. Still, he remained subdued all through dinner while Stiles chatted with the sheriff, trying to convince his dad that crocodile hunter could be a totally valid and worthwhile bachelor’s degree.

Once safely ensconced in his bedroom with Derek in and the door shut, Stiles asked, “Hey, are you all right?” A beat. “Sorry, that’s an incredibly stupid question, don’t even answer. Well, okay, you can’t answer. Verbally, anyway. Uh… so I get that you’re probably not all right, because of all the witch stuff. Which I said I’d help with, but totally haven’t yet. But I’m going to, I swear.”

Derek definitely looked more morose than normal, but at least he got it together enough to shoot a half-hearted glare over at Stiles. Maybe they could talk about it when Derek could actually talk.

Since it was Friday and therefore, ages before any homework had to get done, Stiles got his laptop and began making good on his word, doing his best to bend Google to his will and filter through the amazing amount of dreck to find some pearl of truth regarding witchcraft. In a train-wreck way, the project became ridiculously absorbing; eventually Stiles came up for air between scanning a Geocities (!!) site about crystal-based covens and trying to decide whether an academic paper on 15th century strega remedies was worth reading and noticed, incomprehensibly, the numbers on the clock resolving into 11:59 pm.

“Oh shit,” he blurted, looking around for Derek and making sure that the door was shut. And then the black wolf was growing and reforming, the fur shifting and receding to reveal the man in its place, now kneeling on the floor and shaking his head in momentary confusion.

“Pants!” Stiles said. First things first. Derek furrowed his brows like he didn’t really understand why this was a priority, but did as he was told, and took the collar off his neck for good measure. When Derek was apparently as attired as he was going to get, he growled, “Give me the computer,” while simultaneously grabbing it out of Stiles’ hands.

“Rude,” Stiles said. “However, I’m cutting you several miles of slack because you’re a troubled wolfman.” Derek ignored him, intently focused on the screen.

“Laura e-mailed me,” he said, which shut Stiles up. Instead Stiles watched Derek’s face as he read — annoyance, fondness, worry, even a little smile, chasing across his features in rapid succession and ending in a frown.

“Can I read it?” Stiles asked, then winced, wishing CTRL+Z worked on the things he said. On the other hand, he _was_ afire with curiosity.

He could see Derek go for the automatic _No_ and then bite it back. A long, long silence. Then Derek shrugged and angled the screen towards Stiles so he could see. Stiles read the e-mail quickly.

“Your sister sounds like a… a hellion,” he said finally. “In a good way, I mean. Man, she’s got a foul mouth.”

“I know,” Derek grunted. He began to take on that morose look again.

“But hey, she’s going to do some research, right? She’s got to have some supernatural resources that I certainly don’t. Who knows, by next week you could be all fixed up and wolfing out at your own will again.”

Derek grunted again. He was staring blankly into space, apparently lost in a world of glumness.

“Hey,” Stiles said, snapping his fingers in front of Derek’s face. “Don’t be like that! C’mon, you’ve been weird all day. Okay, I know the situation sucks, but you’ve got two people working on it. I’m pretty good at finding stuff out and your sister sounds like she can kick some serious ass. No more sulking. This won’t be permanent.”

Derek shot a murderous glare over at him and in the ensuing silence Stiles seriously thought he might get punched. But then Derek said only, “You’re supposed to be validating my feelings.”

“Yeah right, not when you’re being a total downer,” said Stiles, then did a double-take. “Wait, was that a joke? Wow, you’ve got a killer deadpan going.”

“They love me at the werewolf comedy club,” Derek said, still with that total deadpan glower on his face. Huh. Who would have thought?

“I meant the pep talk though,” Stiles continued. “It’s too soon to be all depressed all the time. Spending time with a bunch of dogs wasn’t _that_ bad, was it? Which leads me to the next thing I want to talk to you about. I’m supposed to be taking you out for the weekend. Think your gloomy self can handle it?”

That got him a long, considering look. “You think you can handle _me?_ ” Derek said finally, tilting his head, and _wow_ , Stiles actually hadn’t meant to make that innuendo at all but now the imagery was racing through his head at full, glorious IMAX-resolution.

Holy.

Fucking.

Shit.

He was blushing, he knew it. “Uhh, I meant… not… I mean, you…” Shit, this was really, awfully embarrassing. Get it together, Stilinski. And Derek was just there, as deadpan and shirtless and disgustingly hot as ever, probably laughing his ass off on the inside. “You as a _dog._ As in going on a two-day training run with the dog sledding team. Because I don’t know if I mentioned this, but I’m doing this 200 mile race at the end of January. It’s not the Iditarod, but it’s no light jaunt around a park either. And I’ve got a lot of work to do. There is more than just this sorcerous japery in my life.”

“Sure,” Derek said.

Stiles stared at him. “Really?”

“I’ll run with your little pack,” said Derek, weighting the word with some tone that Stiles couldn’t quite decipher. “But you’re not getting me in a harness to pull a sled.”

“Fine, fine,” said Stiles, momentarily dazzled by a mental image of human-Derek in some sort of sex harness, then determinedly shook off the bad thoughts. “That’s settled then. Well, good.”

He could swear that Derek actually looked very slightly amused. Which, although it was at Stiles’ expense, was better than the dejection of before.

“So,” Stiles said.

“So,” repeated Derek, after a pause.

“You are no good at this conversation thing,” Stiles announced. “Here, I’ll keep asking dumb questions if that helps. What did you do, before having a spell put on you? You can’t make a living solely from being a werewolf. Or can you?”

“You’d be surprised,” Derek said darkly. “But I was a grad student.”

“Studying…” Stiles encouraged.

“Art history.”

“Don’t fuck with me. Seriously? Prove it.”

“I have one third of a thesis written on contrasting expressions of the modern sublime exemplified by the Earthworks movement and the Dusseldorf school of photography,” Derek said flatly. “On my computer. Somewhere at home. Which I now will probably never finish.”

“Wow. That sounds splendidly incomprehensible, and I salute you. Here, I promise I’ll help you finish it even if you have to dictate it to me letter by letter via an invented bark-language. You’ll get that useless MFA no matter what.”

“Academia gives you its thanks,” Derek muttered. After another awkward silence, he grudgingly said, “Find anything useful, interrogating the Internet? I fell asleep. Because of boredom.”

“Oh! Well, I found some great recipes for spells and potions. One of them called for five and a half ounces of something called grubloaf. There is _so much_ crazy in the world,” Stiles told him. Then, he said hopefully, “You know, it would be helpful if I could better distinguish between the crazy and the real supernatural, because right now it’s all basically the same to me.”

Derek sighed. “I avoided all magic, before. Not that it made any difference in the end. Don’t know how much I can really tell you.”

“Just tell me everything you can in…” Stiles glanced at the clock, “twenty-three minutes.”

And so Derek delivered what Stiles imagined might be the gruffest, tersest overview of magical theory, genera of supernatural creatures, and extramundane Law and its enforcers, ever. The upshot, after translation from Derek-speak, being:

1) Magic happened from the combination of symbolic, archetypical substances and notation plus raw occult power, but it was still basically mysterious;

2) Vampires didn’t exist except for a type of rare blood-drinking gnome (as far as Derek knew), but shapeshifters existed of all stripes, as well as ghosts, ghouls, and mysterious scary-ass entities referred to as demons;

3) the Law had been developed two centuries ago by a council dominated by witches and was now mainly enforced by members of several witch-clans who never hesitated to crack down on perceived transgressions.

Stiles was prying intel out of Derek on vital matters of supernatural politics when the transformation snuck up on him. “So how do they decide disputed cases— oh, hey. Guess it’s Dances with Wolves time again,” he said, as the man abruptly shifted once more into the large black lupine form.

“This is extremely frustrating,” he remarked, and Derek flipped his tail in agreement.

There was nothing for it but to try and sleep, considering the long run coming up. Lying in bed, Stiles found himself all too focused on Derek — and this time not merely his occult problem, or the fascinating world he was privy to, but the actual solid presence of him, sitting in Stiles’ room, looking surly and forcing words out like it physically pained him. It made Stiles want to… well, do something. He just wasn’t sure what yet.

It was only the second night and Stiles could already tell that this was going to be trouble. But what could he do? He’d promised to help. Backing out would be unimaginable at this point.

It took him a long, long time to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm a relatively slow writer, but the rest of this story is more or less plotted/outlined, so there IS an end in sight somewhere. Hopefully you can bear with me.
> 
> Feedback is much appreciated. Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: animals get hurt in this chapter - but it's caused by other animals and umm, not all that badly? :D;;;

“ _HIKE!_ ”

Dogs leapt, all eagerness and strength. Fourteen compact, tough bodies perfectly suited for the crisp cold air and the long miles ahead, bred for stamina and power and efficiency.

And of course, one other, loping effortlessly alongside, huge and dark and wild.

Except for how right now he was wearing bright green booties on all four feet.

All the dogs wore them for longer runs, to protect the pads of their feet from ice and debris. Derek had looked truly pissed when Stiles had knelt to put the booties on him, but Stiles told him firmly, "Kay would take my sled away if she saw you sans booties. I can get them off you when we're out of sight."

Chartreuse was _definitely_ Derek’s color. Still, true to his word, after judging that they’d gotten far enough away, Stiles braked and halted the team — with some difficulty — and pulled the things off Derek's feet. Derek sniffed disdainfully. Then they were off running again.

Watch these dogs do their work always filled Stiles with a heady mixture of pride and awe. These were _his_ dogs, the creatures he'd adopted or bought or bred, and mostly raised from puppyhood; the creatures to whom he’d devoted many of his waking hours since he'd been sixteen years old. He liked them far more than he liked most human beings.

All his dogs were Alaskan huskies — essentially mutts, created only for long-distance running, variously carrying traits from Siberians, malamutes, hounds and any other cold-weather breed of dog that had ever shown an aptitude for pulling a sled. Among the fourteen dogs in Stiles’ team one could find colors and patterns ranging from black to rusty brown to off-white. Buffy even had floppy ears.

But they were strong and most of them were smart (Snotnose notwithstanding), and all so willing and eager to run even through long hours of darkness in freezing temperatures, wind and snow blasting all around and no end in sight, like that one time Stiles had gotten caught in a snowstorm while training for the Junior Iditarod. They’d give you everything they had if you asked them to, just like that. Stiles loved them for it.

Mushing was a legacy of his mother, in a way; she’d been just as softhearted to animals as Stiles was now, and used to volunteer at the animal shelter, back before she got sick. That was how she’d met Kay Locklear. The two women, of not too-dissimilar ages, became friends, and Kay went on to introduce Ann Stilinski and toddler-Stiles to her then-horde of twenty huskies. She’d put Stiles in the basket of a sled being pulled by a team of dogs when he was maybe six years old, and the wonder and excitement had never worn off.

Conditions today were thankfully not unpleasant at all — they’d set off shortly before noon, so pale sunlight still lit the sky. Well-rested after a week of only short runs, the team kept up a rapid pace, even with the sled piled high with hay for the dogs’ overnight bedding and Stiles’ other gear. 

The trail, cleared and maintained by the local mushing association, curved through dark fir forest for some ten miles, then joined up with the ice-and-snow-covered Fish River — a convenient, treeless wide path to run on, the ice pack thick enough that there was no risk of breaking through, certainly not at this time of year.

They ran on and on, along the frozen river, eating up the miles. Every now and then, to take some weight off the dogs, Stiles would get his feet off the sled’s runners and do some running himself, enjoying the burn and stretch in his lungs. Mushing kept you in shape, at least.

Every hour or so they took breaks to let the dogs rest, cool down and eat some snow —  the only source of any water they’d drink during runs. Stiles was glad to see Derek making his way along the line of harnessed dogs during one break, nosing around and greeting each husky and getting sniffed and greeted in return. Making himself part of the team.

He gave Derek a venison strip as a reward for that. Derek narrowed his eyes at Stiles, clearly conveying _I know exactly what you’re doing and it’s not going to work_. But he did snap up the meat.

At around four o’clock the sun went down. Stiles busted out the headlamp and took a longer rest stop to feed the dogs and Derek and to check their feet and replace any worn out footwear.

Then they continued on, running in the dark, a single bright light moving through the night.

Stiles judged it to be around eight thirty and they’d gone a good sixty miles or more when Princess let out a bark and all the dogs went on alert, lifting their heads and pointing ears forward. There was something on the trail ahead. “Whoa!” he called while braking, slowing the dogs down but not stopping them. Probably just a—

Oh.

Just a giant bull moose with antlers about the size of fucking Idaho, crossing the river ahead, looming up in the dark like a demonic specter. It didn’t help now that Stiles knew demons really existed.

He stopped the dogs in their tracks. For once, it didn’t take much. They were all tightly focused, interested but wary of the moose maybe fifty feet ahead. 

Moose were common, especially in cold winters, taking advantage of the conveniently wide, cleared mushing trails as they traveled wide swathes of territory looking for browse. Up till now, Stiles had managed to avoid having a moose story of his own beyond seeing them in the distance or walking away, but most mushers had experienced at least one scary-ass encounter with a moose. And everyone knew the story of the moose that attacked Susan Butcher midway through the 1985 Iditarod and killed two of her dogs before another musher shot it with a rifle. Not an everyday occurrence, but common enough. 

Stiles felt his adrenaline spiking wildly. _He_ didn’t have a rifle.

He had a hatchet, packed somewhere on the sled… but _what the fuck_ was he going to do with a fucking mini-axe,give the moose a papercut while it trampled him to death?

The world held its breath as the big bull moose stared down Stiles and the dogs in the dark stillness. _Usually_ they just went on their way…

The moose put down its massive head and charged.

In the seconds as the moose thundered straight towards him, Stiles thought: _Oh goddamned bloody shit, the dogs are going to get hurt._

Dogs flailed to get out of the way of the tremendous hooves. There was a mad frenzy of yelping and whining. Stiles barely registered the blur of the behemoth passing practically overhead as it barreled through the team of dogs, sheared to one side and jumped the sled.

The moose slowed and turned for a second assault. And then Stiles seriously almost shit himself, because a big black familiar shape was running _at_ the moose _and leaped for its throat_.

Derek was growling, the same reverberating, unsettling rumble he’d used that first day Stiles had brought him to the kennel. His jaw clamped hard on the moose’s jugular but the thick hair there prevented any real damage. His body hung suspended in mid-air and was being flung about as the moose thrashed and raged. At last, one particularly fervent twist forced Derek off and hurled him to the ground.

Stiles was 100% certain he was about to see Derek get so incredibly killed. He fumbled around, found the hatchet underneath his sleeping bag, and brandished it with far more bravado than sense. “ _Hey!”_ he shouted. “ _Hey, asshole!”_

The moose ignored him in favor of kicking at its attacker. Over furious barking from the other dogs, Stiles could hear the hooves landing with dull thumps, a heavyweight’s fists connecting with a punching bag. Derek being the punching bag in this scenario.

Before Stiles could really think about what he was doing, he found himself running towards Derek and the moose, waving the axe over his head and swinging his other arm too, trying to make himself look bigger. He became aware that he was yelling, no real words, just outraged nonsense.

It did at last successfully distract the moose, which turned its focus over to Stiles. Its head went down, hackles raised and antlers at the ready, preparing for another charge.

_Ffffuuuu—_

But Derek was back up, _somehow_ — miraculously — getting right in the danger zone in front of the moose. He was _fast_ , leaping up and tearing at the moose’s face with sharp savage teeth. Stiles could see blood glinting red in the bright glare from his headlamp.

And then Derek let out a sound unlike anything Stiles had heard of from a true wolf, or any animal. Somewhere between a howl and a roar, loud as a natural disaster, resonating and expanding. The other dogs joined in and bayed along, fierce and brave. It couldn’t have been as loud as it felt, because it felt like the ground shook and the ice beneath their feet would tremble to pieces. How could a sound like that fit in a 95-pound wolf’s body?

Hurt and hesitant at last, the moose backed a few steps off, then shook its great head, blood dripping from the rends on its face. Finally, finally it turned and moved away, too slowly for Stiles’ comfort and with heart-stopping pauses along the way; but at last it melted into the darkness and was gone.

Stiles scrambled over to Derek’s side. “Holy fuckballs, are you _insane_?” he said, trying to take in the damage, running his hands over Derek’s body, afraid of what broken ribs or legs or whatever he might find.

But there was nothing — no broken bones or internal bleeding, no cuts or bruises. He realized that Derek was looking at him flatly like _he_ was the crazy one. Wow. _Way_ unfair. How was he supposed to know that some kind of werewolf healing factor was clearly involved? Stiles let out a deep sigh, releasing the awful fear, and hurried over to look at the other dogs.

It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, not by a long shot. Bobby, quiet dumb Bobby, had a gash on his face that was worryingly close to his right eye and he wasn’t happy about it, whimpering. Several others had bruises and sore spots but no broken ribs, Stiles thought. But worst of all, Princess had a fractured or broken leg — the front left one. It stabbed Stiles to the core to see her limping in pain.

The others were mostly just freaked out. Snotnose slobbered piteously all over Stiles’ face when it was his turn to be examined, seeking reassurance. Stiles calmed them as best he could.

The adrenaline was wearing down. Stiles realized he was trembling and feeling exhausted. There was no way they could start heading back home just yet; some sleep would do everyone good, so he laid out the hay for the dogs’ beds, staked them in line and gave each dog its respective blanket.

He found what first aid supplies he had and treated what he could; tore strips off a spare shirt and splinted Princess’s leg with a stick of wood. It would have to do until tomorrow. Finally, Stiles set up his own tent, even though he kind of wanted to just curl up on a pile of hay with a blanket over his head like one of the dogs.

It seemed like entire ages went by, but at last he was wrapped in his sleeping bag, staring up at the dome of his tent.

He felt tired as hell but sleep wasn’t forthcoming. Thanks entirely to Derek, they’d all gotten out alive. But on a more practical level… the Tustumena 200 race required entering a team of, at minimum, fourteen dogs. And two of his dogs were down for the count. Bobby would probably recover in time. But Princess was his best lead dog, and there was no way she was running anywhere for a couple months at least.

Stiles lost track of time, laying awake in the dark and worrying, but at some point midnight stole in, because the sound of the tent flap’s zipper interrupted his fretting. Moonlight reflecting on snow dimly illuminated Derek’s broad human face, looking in.

“Urgh, get in here, you’re letting the cold in,” Stiles told him. “Aren’t _you_ cold?”

“I’m a werewolf,” Derek said, coming into the tent and closing the flap. Suddenly he seemed very near, in the dark, enclosed space. It was impossible to make out his expression. Although Stiles couldn’t see much of anything, he found it hard to ignore the knowledge that Derek was stark naked. Thank God the sleeping bag would hide any inappropriate boners. Derek continued, “And _you’re_ an idiot.” 

Stiles’s mouth fell open in surprise. “I’m not! You’re the one who attacked a charging animal that weighs about _fifteen times_ as much as you!”

“I’m a _werewolf_ ,” Derek repeated. Like that was all the winning argument he needed.

“Well, Jesus, I missed the Werewolf vs Moose episode of _Animal Face-Off_ , how was I supposed to know who was going to win? I thought you were going to get killed.”

“It takes more than _that_ to kill one of us,” Derek said, sounding offended. “ _You_ were the one risking actually getting killed with that axe stunt.”

“Fine. Lesson learned, never attempt to save _your_ ass again,” Stiles muttered, annoyed. He felt shitty enough already, he didn’t need this from the bewitched werewolf he was aiding and abetting.

Silence. Then Derek sighed and said, in an ever-so-slightly conciliatory tone, “Never knew mushing was such an extreme sport.”

“Iditarod contestants are required to bring a firearm, for just this sort of moose-related incident,” Stiles informed him. “By the way, please explain that physics-defying _sound_ you made that scared the moose off. I think they heard you over in Juneau.”

“Just a territorial howl,” Derek said. “Warns outsiders off a pack’s area.”

“Werewolf pack politics must be hella epic,” said Stiles, imagining the shattering of eardrums if _two_ werewolves made that noise at each other.

“You should sleep,” said Derek, apropos of nothing. “You weren’t before I came in.”

“How do you know? I could have been asleep. You could have woken me up.”

“I could hear you not sleeping. Werewolf senses.”

“Oh.” At least that was better than suddenly being informed that werewolves were also psychic. Although it made Stiles worry about what else werewolf senses could pick up. Such as the presence of inappropriate boners. Oh well, if Derek hadn’t said anything, it must not bother him that much, right? “Well, I was trying to. Just… worried. About stuff.”

“The dogs are doing fine now. _They’re_ all asleep,” Derek said. “They trust you to take care of them.”

“Maybe they shouldn’t,” said Stiles. “I mean, I try. But I should have been way more prepared. _Every_ musher knows that moose attacks are a major risk, and now my dogs are hurt. I seriously fucked up. If it wasn’t for you, we’d have been moosebait.”

“Then it’s good I’m here,” Derek said calmly. Stiles heard rustling, then felt Derek lie down next to him.

Stiles felt his heart rate spiking all over again. “What are you doing? Isn’t that uncomfortable?”

“Shut up,” Derek said, “and just try to sleep.”

Was this… a _thing?_ Like a flirting thing? Derek’s arm was pressed right up against Stiles’ side — he was definitely lying closer than the space available in the tent strictly demanded. And again, hard to ignore, Derek was _naked_. Not that Stiles could see anything, in the dark. Maybe this was just Derek actually trying to sleep? But if so, wasn’t he going about it in a totally weird way?

Then again, as Derek kept saying, he _was_ a werewolf. And if Stiles had learned anything today, it was that werewolves did crazy-ass things.

“Are you hitting on me?” Stiles blurted. Shit. Wait. “I mean, you can, it’s totally okay if you are, I just. Want to know.” Shit. “Because I’d, like, absolutely invite you to share this warm sleeping bag with me, except it’s kind of a one-person sleeping bag and you’re really not going to fit.” _Shit._ “So maybe… tomorrow—”

“No,” said Derek.

Stiles shut up, too busy dying inside to formulate words.

Derek sighed again. “Not really,” Derek said. “This is really not the time for this. Just _go to sleep_.”

Not _really?_ Not _really_.

Hmmmmm.

“Hey, Derek,” he said, after a while. He got no response, but he hadn’t been expecting one. “Thank you. For saving the dogs. And me, I guess. All the moose in the land shall fear your mighty roar.” Still nothing in return, which was probably for the best.

Mind well distracted from the whole debacle of a day by the intriguing phrase _not really_ , Stiles found the tiredness finally engulfing him. Somehow, he slept.

#

Some time later Stiles awoke to find a coarsely-furred wolf curled up against his side. It felt rather nice. Comforting. The human Derek would have been even nicer, but this was a close second and Stiles would take what he could get.

Six a.m. Time to get home and face some shit hitting some fans.

Derek had awoken when Stiles had, so Stiles rudely ushered him outside and packed up the tent. He boiled water, fed the dogs and checked over Bobby’s face and Princess’ leg. Neither looked great, but nor did the injuries look any worse than they had yesterday, so. At least there was that.

Carefully Stiles lifted the two hurt dogs into the basket of the sled and made them as comfortable as he could. It wasn’t too much extra weight for the twelve remaining dogs to pull, but he would just have to hope that Tony would have a good day as solo lead dog. 

But when he had the team in harness and went to remove the second lead line, Derek came up calmly and stood in position next to Tony, ignoring the curious sniffing and overtures from the smaller dog.

“Uh, wow, okay. Are you sure you’ve thought this through? You don’t have to do this, dude,” Stiles said. “Do you even know the commands? Haw is left, gee is right, ‘on by’ means keep going—”

Derek glared at him, ears set back. “Okay, okay, you’re not an idiot. Sorry,” said Stiles. “Um, I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Wally and Selina are good swing dogs, they’ll help make turns. Just… try not to overturn the sled.” Luckily Bobby was a big husky and his harness would just barely fit Derek. Stiles attached Derek to the lead line and hoped for the best.

“ _Hike!”_

And they were off, heading home.

 

It took just under seven hours. Stiles pushed the team, taking fewer and shorter breaks and also spending more time on the ground running himself to compensate for the weight of the two dogs in the sled’s basket.

Unsurprisingly, Derek could _run_. He went fast as hell and never flagged, and apparently he _had_ been paying attention because he did respond to all the commands perfectly. The other dogs seemed to be inspired by his example and practically flew along the trail.

The world took pity on Stiles and threw no more unexpected dangers at them. He would have enjoyed how smoothly and rapidly the trip went, except for the two injured dogs lying patiently in the basket.

At long last, the kennel came into sight and Stiles could breath a sigh of relief. Kay came out to greet them. When she saw the configuration of the team her eyes widened in surprise. Luckily Stiles had remembered to stop and put booties on Derek before they arrived, or the explanations would have been even more awkward.

“What happened?” she said flatly, when the sled came to a stop.

“Moose attack,” said Stiles. “It was time. I should have known I couldn’t get away with avoiding them forever. Could have been a lot worse, but Princess broke a leg, Bobby got a kick to the face and hey, it turns out that Derek there is a natural leader.” He gave her the sanitized version of the story as they unharnessed the dogs, substituting something vague about the dogs’ combined barking eventually frightening the moose away.

“Jesus Almighty, you have both the worst and the best luck of anybody I know,” Kay told him when he finished. “Well, I’ll wager that Bobby there will be fine and ready for racing in a week or two. Poor Princess will be out for a few months though.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe you put a newcomer in lead position. By all rights you ought to be still thirty miles out, with an overturned sled or something. It’s crazy.”

“Yeah, crazy like a fox,” Stiles said.

To his surprise, Kay pulled him into a tight hug, her compact frame only coming up to his chin. “Thank God you’re all in one piece, kid,” she said. “The Sheriff would have my hide if you’d gotten hurt on my watch. Gonna have to start carrying a rifle when you go out overnight, hey?”

“Yeah, probably,” Stiles said reluctantly. He knew how to shoot, but wasn’t really a fan of guns, for all that his father was Sheriff and hunting a near-universal practice around town. But he didn’t want to depend only on Derek for safety.

The rest of the day went by in a blur of calling Deaton and having the vet check out the dogs — confirming the diagnosis of a broken leg — calling his dad and breaking the news, unpacking, cleaning, maintenance, all the million and one chores you had to do after a run.

And then there was _homework_.

But when he got on his computer to maybe pretend to start writing a history essay, the alert he’d set up in case Derek got a new message popped up and waved for attention. “Derek, you’ve got mail,” he told the wolf currently sacked out on Stiles’ bed. (Stiles wasn’t sure when Derek had decided he was too good for the floor, but he took up most of the mattress, looking extremely comfortable.) Derek’s ears pricked up eagerly. “But I can’t get into your e-mail account, so you’ll just have to wait till midnight.”

Derek flopped back down onto the bed, ears flicking briefly backwards. Stiles rather liked how the werewolf couldn’t help but express his feelings when he was lupine. He found it reassuring, Derek showing emotions beyond the limited range to which his human face was apparently restricted.

Midnight rolled around while Stiles wrestled with the AP American history text, and all of a sudden there was a naked Derek on his bed. _So_ not helpful in Stiles’s fight against his stupid crush. “Pants are required now, c’mon,” he ordered. Derek ignored him completely and yanked the computer out of Stiles’ hands, engrossing himself in reading his e-mail.

Stiles sighed and resigned himself to fate, namely: jerking off, possibly twice, in the shower next morning. “Well?” he demanded, when Derek finished. The guy looked peeved. Typical.

“This is ridiculous,” Derek muttered, handing the laptop back to Stiles so he could read the message.

From: laura.hale@gmail.com  
To: dhale@gmail.com  
Date: Sat, Dec 16, 2012 at 9:29 PM  
Subject: DISCOVERIES  
Message:  
Derek,  
I've been working on our little occult problem. Sources haven't been super forthcoming. In fact I think some of them are avoiding me. Why ever would they do something like that, right? I thought we’d all put that minor potion-thievery-and-aconite-destruction Incident of '07 behind us. 

But, I managed to persuade one particular acquaintance to spill the beans on a few potential avenues to explore. Magic is about symbols (or as I call it: vague fucking bullshit) and power and I guess it's all gotta be bound together by some kind of sacrifice. She said the main thing is gonna be way too complicated to counterspell without a long-ass time devoted to testing it. And breaking it by force would risk frying your brain, so Imma make an alpha decision and say lets table that one. 

But re: that annoying topical speech geas, here are a few "symbolic" "associations" "that might point towards feasible counterspell options"... "given a viable spark and a correctly resonating proportion of meaningful archetypes”. Holy motherfucking shit witches are so lame.

-Tongues (obvious)  
-Wine (have fun with that)  
-Chickens (don't ask me why)  
-Check out Norse symbology related to Odin (for knowledge) and Loki (for speech and because of the whole Fenrir thing)  
-Might need to break through some barrier or obstruction... *symbolically* (I repeat, magic is so dumb)  
-High noon would be a good moment to do whatever you do  
-Or perhaps a full moon (special "resonance" for "those with your particular affliction" ha ha)

So I know this seems really fucking unhelpful but at this point my source clammed up and I wasn’t gonna ACTUALLY tear her throat out, so. I guess you could cook up some chicken tongues in like a wine stew and eat it by the light of a full moon. Oh and bust out of a gate while you’re doing it. See, this spell business aint so hard. I shoulda been a flippin’ witch! 

I will keep prying around (sneakily). Write back so I know you're still in possession of your faculties (if you ever were). 

Be safe.  
Laura

 

“Chicken tongues?” Stiles said. “I have honestly never thought about chickens even having tongues. _Do_ they have tongues?”

“Duck tongues are a delicacy in China,” Derek said.

“What, really? How do you know this stuff? Is this a werewolf thing, knowing random trivia?” Stiles demanded, mostly kidding. _Mostly_.

Derek gave him a withering glance. “I did live in Seattle for eight years. Many Asian supermarkets.”

“Well, there aren’t any here, so unless you want to steal a bunch of chickens and pluck out their little tongues yourself, I don’t know how to get our hands on any,” Stiles said.

“Chicken rustling’d be easy,” Derek said, with a completely serious expression. “Bet you I’d have twenty tongues in that many minutes.”

Stiles laughed, charmed by the image of Derek raiding henhouses in the night, then shook his head. “But seriously, back to the real topic here. That being: magic is totally lame! Where’s the chanting of words of power? Where’s the wand-flicking and broomsticks? All this symbol business seems awfully nebulous.”

Derek just shrugged, so Stiles continued, “And even if we did get the components for a spell, what does it mean, ‘a viable spark’? That sounds like some kind of essential magical power is required, and I’m pretty sure I haven’t got any. And a _sacrifice?_ Ominous.”

“Now you know what real magic is like,” Derek said. “Stupidly vague.”

“Meh. I guess it’ll help filter out some of the bullshit while I’m doing research,” Stiles mused. “A bit. And the Norse direction is helpful, that’s an actual academic field to look into. When’s the next full moon?”

“Eleven days,” Derek said, without hesitation.

“Okay, hopefully I’ll have found something we can try by then. Or sooner, we could always give high noon a shot as well. It probably won’t accomplish much, considering I don’t know shit about what I’m doing, but what’s the worst that could happen?” said Stiles, shrugging. “No magic occurs, I’ll look silly clutching a fistful of chicken tongues. So, whatever, I’m game.”

“Now that you’ve said that, it’s going to backfire and rain magical fire down over all Alaska,” Derek muttered.

“Then all our problems will be over and you can frolic for eternity in werewolf heaven,” Stiles said brightly. “Hey, so… by the way… are you any good at calculus?”

#

As it turned out, Derek had forgotten anything he’d ever learned about math, enmeshed as he’d been in the rarefied sphere of graduate-level art history. “Haven’t seen a number in years,” he said, without a hint of a smile.

Over the course of the week, Stiles found himself hoarding tidbits of information about Derek like a magpie collecting shiny toys. He couldn’t help himself; fact-gathering was in his nature, and Derek’s silences stood as an irresistible challenge. Stiles wanted to know _everything._

Through observation, inference and some relentless badgering, he learned that:

  * Talking-head pundits on TV made Derek want to kill himself
  * Derek could sit and watch the aurora borealis, if uninterrupted, probably until he died of starvation
  * He preferred deer and turkey to beef or moose (possibly only applicable when he was in wolf form)
  * He had read through all of _Moby-Dick_ twice and _liked_ it



Stiles also secretly diverted some research time into the topic. Derek had never outright told Stiles his last name, but it _was_ right there in his and Laura’s e-mail addresses; and he _had_ said that he’d once lived in Beacon Hills. It was all too easy to find archived articles online about the fire that had burned down the Hale house and all the inhabitants except for Derek and Laura. Well, that explained why Laura had become a firefighter (another factoid Derek had let slip at some point).

It had been reported as an electrical fire, an accident, but… a family of werewolves, trapped like that? Stiles had to wonder if magic had been involved.

Because when Stiles wasn’t thinking about Derek, he was thinking about magic. Done sporadically in snatches of time between school, training runs with the dogs, midnight conversations with Derek, and too-few hours of sleep, Stiles’ investigation into spellcasting proceeded… eclectically.

He memorized ancient Viking runes and studied voodoo rituals centered on sacrificing roosters. He read up on Dionysian philosophy and the liminal symbology of thresholds and doors.

It was all probably getting a little out of hand. For example, one afternoon while harnessing the dogs, Stiles realized he’d put Beast and Buffy in the wrong positions because he’d been ruminating about the possibility of the moon itself being a type of portal or threshold. The dogs in question flailed about in adorable, eager confusion. Derek, already in place at the head of the team, looked askance at him, clearly thinking _What the hell is wrong with you?_

Stiles would have thought Derek would return to running alongside the team rather than as part of it, Derek taking the lead dog role after the Mooseocalypse nothing more than a charitable contribution. But to his surprise, when he’d harnessed the dogs for the first time following the incident, Derek had stepped unhesitatingly into the place at the head of the line.

On this one topic Stiles resisted talking to Derek, afraid that he’d change his mind. Instead, he simply bought an extra large harness and let the great black wolf run.

They continued to run every day, in the long dark twilights after Stiles got back from school — short dashes of a couple of hours only for now, until school let out next week for Christmas break. The dogs needed the routine, and Derek never complained that the time could be better spent on de-magicking him. In fact, Stiles felt pretty sure that Derek was getting to _like_ leading the team.

Another thing Stiles spent more time thinking about than he ought: whether Derek was getting to like _Stiles_.

Thus far, Stiles hadn’t been able to bring himself to just ask Derek about it, fearing a repeat of the tent mega-awkwardness. But more than a few times he’d caught Derek, when human-shaped, watching him as he poked around on the computer or babbled on about the latest avenue of magical research he was flailing down.

Sometimes Stiles felt sure there was some extra warmth, some special intent in that gaze. Other times he thought about how they’d only known each other for less than two weeks, and most of that time as different species.

But he went on thinking about it, nonetheless.

 

From: derek@remailer.com  
To: laura.hale@gmail.com  
Date: Mon, Dec 17, 2012 at 12:57 AM  
Subject: Re: DISCOVERIES  
Message:  
Laura,

Thanks for the tips, nebulous as they are. We’re going to try some things. But watch out for yourself. Maybe let some time go by before you make your next move, let any talk die down. Witches gossip. Don’t let word get back to Voldemort that you’re investigating. Please. 

Things aren’t perfect, but I’m in a tolerable situation. Keeps me busy. More stimulating than writing my thesis, believe me. So don’t worry. You’d probably say that being a wolf all day is helping me get in touch with my emotions. 

It’s been... interesting. 

Be safe. 

Love,  
Derek


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. Haven't proofread this super closely so I apologize for any horrible errors.

The moon hung a crescent in the sky, snow wafting gently down from above, not a whisper of wind to disturb the slow drift. It was the longest night of the year — the night the natural year turned over and the earth traced one more ellipse in its endless gyration through space.

The solstice. An essential liminal moment, a symbol of transition and renewal. Too perfect of an opportunity to pass up.

The Sheriff had an overnight shift tonight. Stiles snuck out of the house at 11:30 PM, Derek in tow, with a backpack of supplies: a pilfered bottle of red wine, a bowl and a couple of sterilized razorblades. He’d found a description of a spell, in an old collection of translated Norse folk tales, intended to force the telling of truths.

Maybe it didn’t  _exactly_ fit the bill of what Derek needed, but something about it had just sounded… plausible, at least. More real than the usual internet love potion anyway — despite a sad lack of chicken tongues. And while gut feelings weren’t good for much when it came to science, or predicting presidential elections, perhaps for magic it would do.

He drove out to a nearby conservation area, and trudged through the soft snow to a clearing in the woods, Derek padding silently just behind. No one around for miles and miles, and only the headlamp for light. They waited for midnight.

Soon enough the magic swept through, carrying away the fur and the four-leggedness and leaving Derek’s human form behind. “This is not a good idea,” Derek said, when he could speak.

“It’ll be  _fine_ ,” said Stiles, rolling his eyes. “I’m 99.9% sure nothing at all will happen. C’mon, quick, it should be done as close to midnight as possible.” He tossed a spare set of clothes over to Derek, for his own sanity’s sake.

Next Stiles pulled out the wine. Someone had given the bottle to his father at some point and the sheriff, who preferred whiskey and bourbon, had shoved it to the back of the liquor cabinet to be politely ignored. It looked like a decent enough vintage. He fought briefly with a corkscrew and finally won, pouring some of the dark liquid into the bowl. This he handed to the now-clothed Derek, along with a razorblade.

Derek looked supremely irritable, with a hint of sarcastic eye-roll, but he opened his mouth.

Drew the blade down the curve of his tongue, without hesitance or flinching. Let the blood well up in a sharp red line and drip the precious substance briefly into the bowl, until Stiles saw the cut heal and close up before his eyes.

You needed a sacrifice.

Stiles took the bowl back and stared down at the mixed liquid. This was the part he’d been trying not to dwell on. It  _looked_  like blood, that was the problem. And maybe it was Stiles’ imagination getting to him, but he thought the wine smelled… different, now. “Elegant notes of black cherry and vanilla, with a subtle bouquet of werewolf blood,” he murmured to himself.

Well, perhaps the real sacrifice was of his sense of hygiene. Best to get it over with. He raised the bowl up to his lips and drank half the contents.

It tasted like cheap wine.

Mostly.

Stiles licked his lips, feeling… strange. The whole thing was strange. Probably the atmosphere, the snow, the quiet and the dark were all affecting him. He’d hypothesized that foregoing part of the ritual was meant to symbolically bind the giver’s voice to the one performing the spell. The next part specified only that the caster must break the silence with a truthful vow — whatever that meant. Vague fucking bullshit, right?

He thought he’d known what he was going to say — talking was never a problem for Stiles Stilinski — but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out. The phrases he’d come up with, head full of high fantasy speech, all thee’s and thou’s and melodrama, just wouldn’t do.

Derek was watching him, his eyes wide and dark and intense. Stiles closed his eyes and focused, searching for the right words. True things…

“My true name is Genim Stilinski… but my truer name is Stiles,” he said, slowly. The words sounded over-loud, made weird shapes in his ears, but demanded he keep going. “I command truth from you, Derek Hale, in all your true forms. And in return, I promise to you only truth, as a fair trade.”

Stiles felt his eyebrows drawing together. Where’d  _that_ come from? But it couldn’t be unsaid, and well, he hadn’t been planning on lying to Derek anyway… right? Right. Sure.

After a moment, he took a clean razorblade and let his own lips part over the bowl. Urgh. This was the other part he’d tried not to think about.

The blade bit a short line of fire along his tongue, although he was cutting with the lightest possible hand, and Stiles couldn’t help but feel the sensitive muscle wince and contract. But a few drops of blood fell down into the half-filled bowl and mixed with the fluid therein. Stiles closed his mouth, swallowed, tasted the strange tang of his own blood.

He gave the bowl back to Derek, who took it, his nostrils flaring. The expression on his face was peculiar, but Derek drank, draining the bowl. Completing the symmetry, binding and finishing the spell. It hadn’t taken more than ten minutes.

“Well?” Stiles demanded, after a few heartbeats of silence.

Derek stared at him, blinking slowly. “I… hm.”

“Hmm, what? C’mon, talk,” Stiles said eagerly.

“Hrrrmmmmghhauuurgh,” said Derek. “Ffffsshhhooooaaargh.” Strangled wordless groans came out of his mouth, like zombies having a debate. But…

It took a few seconds to register. Then Stiles said, “You’re… making sounds! That’s totally a step up from silence, right?  _Holy shit!_ Something  _happened._ That was magic! I made magic happen! Holy… shit!”

“Ggghhhhaaaooo— this is ridiculous,” Derek complained. “I sound like a B-movie monster.”

“You  _are_ a B-movie monster, Wolfman. Anyway, this was my first attempt at witching, you know,” said Stiles. “You can’t expect it to go perfectly. Let’s focus on the fact that something happened at all, and that it didn’t involve explosions! Which means either magic is way easier than advertised, or I am some sort of undiscovered fucking  _prodigy_. I’m like flippin’ Harry Potter! Man, just think, I could have been going to wizard school this whole time!”

“Those don’t exist,” Derek said, stomping mercilessly on all Stiles’ hopes and dreams. Oh well. Alaskan musher wasn’t  _that_ much worse of a fate than boy wizard. “But… I guess you’ve got the potential,” he said grudgingly. “Shocking. Witches are usually female.”

“Huh! How does it usually work — finding new witches to train?” Stiles asked.

“It mostly runs in families. I don’t know how they handle outsiders with power,” Derek said. “Surprisingly, they don’t tell us werewolves much. Thhhffffoaarrrg. Damn it.”

“I don’t think you can  _surprise_  a spell into not working,” Stiles said. “We’ll just have to try again. I’ll have to think about where the spell went wrong. I mean, it did at least affect the correct general area — your ability to speak. Maybe it just needs more… you know,  _oomph_ , to counteract the power of the geas? Wish I knew more about magical theory. Wow, this might actually  _work!_ ” He punched the air triumphantly.

“Or it's beginner’s luck,” Derek suggested, raising an eyebrow.

Stiles made a face at him. “Quit crushing my dreams.  _You’re_  lucky that I like you enough to be doing all this stuff. My tongue still hurts!  _Yours_  healed right up.”

Derek just rolled his eyes. But as they began the trek back to the Jeep, he said, “You know, that kind of vow you made, in the middle of a working spell… those words have power.”

“What, so you can’t lie to me,” Stiles retorted. “Have you been? I haven’t been lying to you.”

“I know,” Derek murmured, and didn’t say any more.

Stiles found himself staring at his own hands as he drove home. He’d done  _magic._ Well, done  _something_ , anyway. He didn’t feel any different — no sense of power tingling somewhere inside him, in whatever metaphysical organ in which magical power was supposed to reside. “This is so weird,” he muttered to himself. In the next seat, Derek only grunted. Stiles continued, “I mean, how unlikely is it that I would turn out to have latent magical ability? What did Laura call it— a viable spark?”

“Congratulations,” Derek said flatly. He was slumped back on the car seat, head tipped up, a contemplative expression on his face.

Well. Seventeen days until the next full moon. Stiles had a lot to think about.

#

In the meantime, the holidays insisted on happening.

Derek mostly didn’t think about the past. The big ten-foot tree the family had always set up in the entrance hall with the lights and ghastly family heirloom ornaments. The roast venison and the pecan pie his mother and aunts made every year. The too-big leather jacket Uncle Peter had given him when he was fifteen, to grow into, Peter had said.

But Peter was dead, and the rest of them. Derek and Laura hadn’t bothered much with Christmas after she’d took him to Seattle, and never talked about it — just exchanged subtly sarcastic joke gifts (one year Laura got him a ten-pack of white wifebeaters. Derek had snorted and gave her a beautifully wrapped bottle of dog shampoo. She was vain about her hair) and pretended they weren’t both remembering everyone they’d lost.

This year, Derek e-mailed her an e-card that pictured a pair of majestic wolves howling, with “HAVE A HAPPY WOLF-MAS” written on it in Comic Sans, and wondered what she was doing. Hopefully keeping quiet and staying safe.

The Stilinskis brought out a small pre-decorated fake tree. Stiles told Derek, one quiet midnight hour, that decorating had lost its appeal after Stiles’ mom had died. But the Sheriff took a couple days off to spend with Stiles at home, doing things Derek guessed they rarely had time for, like baking cookies or watching the entirety of  _Twin Peaks_  on DVD. It made Derek feel a little like an intruder, but there wasn’t much he could do except stay out of their way.

People came: Stiles’ friend Scott, and Kay Locklear, and others, bringing gifts and food and noise and laughter; and then went, leaving the nights quiet. Derek spent them brooding. Stiles wrote college application essays which he made Derek proofread, and explored nefarious corners of the Internet in search of magical theory. They talked, too, mostly about nothing; college life, friends, Seattle, dog-sledding. Derek told Stiles the story of Laura’s not-so minor potion-thievery-and-aconite-destruction Incident of ’07. Stiles told stories about his mother.

On Christmas Eve, a crisp cold afternoon, Stiles brought his dad to the kennel and harnessed up the dogs with Derek at the lead. The sheriff sat in the basket of the sled; Stiles took up his position on the runners. It had been quite a few days since their last run and Derek could sense only eagerness and energy from the other dogs. Nor was he immune himself. It felt like a reprieve, to have snow under his feet and the miles stretching behind him. Sheriff Stilinski whooped cheerfully as the team sped down the powdery trail.

Stiles took them down to the frozen riverbank. The sun was already setting. It cast a luminous red-orange smolder over the winter landscape, like purest cadmium pigment being gently infused onto a white canvas. The peaks of the Alaskan mountain range in the distance, practically glowing with translucent lavender and purple, stretching up beyond the line of black firs, completed the glorious vista. Derek thought of his abandoned thesis and the paintings of Caspar David Friedrich. In some ways the modern sublime had nothing on the old Romantic kind, with its vast beautiful terrors. He’d missed Alaska.

As a boy he’d run wild, searching out visions just like this. Sometimes on four legs, sometimes on two. Sometimes the whole family would go wolf and hunt, ranging vast distances through the forest. It had been years. He and Laura hadn’t left the city often. The territory around Seattle was all claimed by others.

“Not too shabby, eh?” the Sheriff said, grinning, as they took it all in.

“Yeah, it’s okay, I guess. It’s kinda nice,” Stiles agreed, unable to contain his own grin.

The thirteen huskies lounged around, playful, tongues lolling. Their dumb canine happiness was infectious, harder to resist every time they ran together. Derek gave himself up to a momentary joyful instinct, lay down in the snow, and  _rolled_.

The powder felt delightfully cool after the exertion of the run. The brown husky Snotnose whuffed at him and playfully nipped at his shoulder. Derek lazily sat up, then pounced on the dog — gently, for a werewolf — and let himself be tackled in return. It was easy not to think. He felt… fine. All right.

Stiles was laughing. At him, Derek realized, as he looked up from his…  _play_ , he thought with muted surprise; he’d been playing. A scent curled through the air — a tendril of warm sepia/green, redolent of summer and woodsmoke. He knew that it meant Stiles was happy.

He’d started noticing it not long after the night of the spell, and it worried Derek a little that he’d known right away what it meant. Did it have something to do with magic? Some side-effect of Stiles’ amateur spellcasting? They had shared blood, after all. That sobered him.

Still… Derek had to admit he found something about the scent rather beguiling. Comforting. Tempting him with memories of the past, of Alaska and home.

It was stupid. Stiles was… a kid still, really. Derek’s thoughts went inevitably to the spell he was still under, and the one thing  _she_  had told him could break it. But he cut that line of thought off remorselessly. It was useless to think it. Still impossible.

Derek put it out of his mind and settled down for another good roll in the snow.

Christmas Day came and went. The sheriff gave Stiles an entirely new, hand-crafted, sleek racing sled, the fine wood stained dark mahogany, saying, “Since I never gave you a shiny new vehicle for your sixteenth birthday — that Jeep is a piece of junk, doesn’t count — this will have to do.” Stiles gleefully exulted for a solid half hour.

That midnight, once Derek had shifted, Stiles tossed a small rectangular box at him with a wry half-smile. Derek caught it, surprised. It was wrapped in gold paper.

“Gonna open it or just gawk at it?” Stiles asked. There was a current of nervousness under his confident words, and a bare hint of that amber woodsmoke smell.

Derek shot him a glare, but neatly tore open the wrapping paper.

It was a knife. A small dagger, really. It looked sharp. There were letters etched into the grip, in some language Derek didn’t know, and a piece of glass set in the pommel, colored in three concentric circles: deep cobalt, turquoise, and white. “An evil eye,” Derek said, raising a brow. “Very… useful, thank you.”

Stiles gave him a dirty look. “I thought we could try getting that collar off you,” he explained. “The blade is cold steel, the eye is an old, old apotropaic symbol — meaning it wards off evil — and the Turkish inscription, too. I bathed the blade in rock salt and did a curse-breaking ritual I found on it, too.”

Derek stared at him. He didn’t know what to say. “Your blood is on it,” he said at last. That scent — there was nothing like it — overpowered, on the blade, though Derek could tell it was days old.

“I needed blood for the sacrifice,” Stiles said nonchalantly. “C’mon, let’s give it a try. It might not work, after all.”

“Where did you get the knife?” Derek asked, as he retrieved the collar from where he’d dropped it on the floor.

“Oh, you can find anything on the Internet,” said Stiles. “Put the collar on, I think it’s more symbolically significant if I cut it when you’re wearing it.”

Slowly Derek wrapped the collar around his neck and buckled it on. It felt wrong to be putting it on rather than taking it off as fast as possible, the leather sitting heavily and the little metal tag cold against his collarbones.

Stiles was looking at Derek’s neck, eyes wide and dark. He looked nervous. “Uh… so… werewolves  _do_ die from having their throats cut, right? Urgh,” he said, when Derek nodded. “Unfortunately it has to be me who does the cutting. Because I’m the one with the magic, apparently. God I hope I don’t slit your jugular, it’d be pretty hard to explain to my dad. I sharpened the knife…”

Derek inhaled. “It’s okay. Just be careful.  _Really_ careful.” Stiles swallowed, but nodded.

Stiles shut his eyes and took some deep, quiet breaths. The silence stretched out until several minutes had passed. When Stiles opened his eyes at last, he looked calmer. Thankfully.

“Lift your head,” Stiles said.

Derek did. He felt Stiles grab the collar to hold it in place, fingertips brushing close and warm against Derek’s neck. Then he became aware of the presence of the cold blade against his bared throat. His breath caught.

He couldn’t see too much from this angle, but he sensed Stiles’ steady hand holding the knife quite still. The tip of it slipped under the edge of the collar and just —  _just_ — rested against Derek’s skin.

The knife moved.

The cut shouldn’t have been so easy — the leather was thick enough that there should have been some careful sawing required. But the dagger moved upwards, slow but steady, parting the collar as if it were made of soft flesh rather than hardened leather. Derek could hear Stiles’ breath drawing in and out, steady as the tide.

Then it was done. The collar fell slack and slipped down off Derek’s neck. He and Stiles both let out explosive sighs of relief. Derek looked down, his eyes catching Stiles’ and holding, till they were both staring.

“I think it worked,” Stiles said, at last. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

Derek nodded. Stiles was beginning to give off that warm summer happiness smell again. “Thank you,” Derek said quietly. He felt… strange. A little giddy. A little bit awed.

And when the hour turned and Derek turned with it, the collar stayed on the floor, with its clean cut edges, all inert and harmless.

#

The solstice might be more magically significant, but to humans and their calendar-oriented society, it was New Year’s Eve that called for celebration. Stiles was going with Scott to a party Lydia Martin was throwing at her house. Ordinarily they would never have wrangled an invite to such a socially prestigious affair, but Allison had been accepted into the high school top echelon of popularity despite her general apathy towards such things, and she had asked them to come.

Stiles felt pretty shitty about it, but he had to leave Derek at home for the event. Midnight was kind of an important moment at New Year’s parties, and it would be difficult to explain his dog suddenly turning into an incredibly hot naked dude. He wouldn’t want to cause a riot.

“You don’t seem as excited about this party as I would’ve thought,” Scott said, as they walked down the street towards the Martin house.

“What, really? No way, I’m totally. Super excited,” Stiles said. “Lydia! You know. Seeing her. Always fantastic.” That was true — part of him still swooned when thinking about the girl he’d been dreamily crushing on for years, the proud, confident girl who always seemed so in control of her perfectly-groomed world. He’d had her in mind when he’d named Princess — not that she’d be impressed with having a dog named after her — but the husky’s reddish fur and bossy attitude made the comparison inescapable.

But she’d never deigned to notice his existence, and probably never would. And things were different when you had an super-attractive magic wolfman living in your house, who talked to you every night about random shit, could deliver sarcastic quips with a perfect deadpan  _and_ could potentially lead your dog-sledding team to crushing victory. 

Yeah, Stiles had it pretty bad at this point.

Still. It would have looked extremely out of character if he’d declined the chance to go to this party and moon over Lydia. Anyway, he  _did_ want to go, if only for the novelty. “Maybe she’ll learn my name,” he said optimistically.

Scott looked sympathetic. “You might meet someone else cool too?”

 _Way ahead of you, bro,_  Stiles thought.

Allison met them at the door with a sweet smile, a hug for Stiles and a lingering kiss for Scott. “My eyes,” Stiles complained, and she pulled back, smirking. Stiles really had no idea what sort of sorcery had won Scott her affections, but she did seem awfully fond of him. Maybe Scott was the true magical prodigy.

“Want something to drink? There’s eggnog,” Allison said.

“Who am I to say no to eggnog?” Stiles said, and got some. It definitely had an edge of alcohol to it, brandy or bourbon or something. Well, he’d been planning on walking back to Scott’s house after the party, anyway.

The house filled quickly with people, many from school but plenty Stiles had never seen before too. He caught glimpses of Lydia in the middle of the throng, directing people around with a composed little smile on her cherry-red lips. Stunning as always; but Stiles found himself wondering how Derek was doing, abandoned back at the house. Derek had rolled his eyes and said he was wanted no part of high school parties, but Stiles wondered if he was going all moody and dark, all by himself on New Year’s Eve.

Urghh. This was not the time to guilt-trip himself. Scott and Allison seemed to have disappeared. Presumably to make out in the bathroom or something, Stiles didn’t want to know. He wandered through the crowd, occasionally stopping to talk with classmates and acquaintances. 

The time passed pleasantly enough: being mostly ignored though not actually shunned, watching people dance awkwardly while wisely refraining himself, and drinking more cups of eggnog than was probably good for his digestion. The TV was on, turned to coverage of New Year’s celebrations around the country. All of a sudden everyone was turning towards the screen and shouting along with the countdown. “ _Ten…. nine…. eight…_ ”

Midnight at New Year’s would have been a really great excuse to plant a kiss on human-Derek, Stiles reflected regretfully. “ _…Three… two…._ ” Then a totally random blond girl he didn’t know grabbed him and  _did_ kiss him, right on the lips.

It was sort of nice, no lie, for the three seconds it lasted. She pulled back and grinned at him, flushing slightly. “Sorry,” she said, not sounding very sorry. “Just didn’t want to be the only one not welcoming in the new year.”

“Right. Wouldn’t want to offend it,” Stiles said.

“Yeah, I hear it’s a total bitch. I don’t want to have twelve months of bad luck.”

“It’s not looking too good so far, you picked me,” Stiles said, lips quirking.

She laughed. “Oh, I don’t think it’s as bad as all that. I’m Melissa, by the way.”

“I’m Stiles,” said Stiles, slightly stupefied. “Yes, it’s a nickname. The name on my birth certificate is extremely privileged information. I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

The girl had big brown eyes and a light dusting of freckles, and slightly big front teeth, Stiles noticed, as she laughed. “You go to Beacon Hills High?” she asked.

Amazingly enough, the descent into small talk didn’t totally destroy the conversation. Somehow they got on the topic of pets, a subject on which Stiles obviously had plenty to say.

They chatted a while. She seemed funny, and interested; the occasional long digression on some detail related to mushing didn’t even bore her to tears. Stiles wasn’t sure how long he spent talking, but suddenly he caught sight of a familiar tousle of black hair, making an unexpected reappearance. “Hey, sorry, I see my friend over there looking like someone punched his grandma, I should go ask him what’s wrong. Nice meeting you!” he said, and made his way over to Scott. “What’s up, dude? Thought you’d be all over Allison for the rest of the night.”

“Her dad called her, said there was some kind of emergency family thing she had to come home for,” Scott said with a degree of pout. “I hope everything’s okay, but we were in the middle of—“

“Okay, let’s not venture into TMI territory,” Stiles said hurriedly. “Well, that sucks, man. It’s getting pretty late, did you want to stick around or should we ollie on out?”

“Weren’t you talking to a girl? I thought I saw you  _actually_  talking, without falling over onto the floor. Good going, man! She seemed cute, what’s the deal?”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess we were talking,” Stiles said. “Actually, she kissed me earlier. But just because it was midnight, you know how it goes.”

“Uh… sure, dude. Did you even get her number or anything?”

“Er, no, but… Facebook?” Scott eyed him like he was totally nuts. Stiles threw up his hands. “I dunno. Look, she was super nice and all, but she’s just not… Lydia.”  _By which I mean, not Derek._

Scott looked sympathetic. He said, “Well, okay then. Yeah, let’s go home, I’m kind of bummed out now. We could play some 2 AM Gears of War?”

“Sounds like a great way to ring in the new year!” Stiles said, and went to track down his coat.

#

Returning the next morning — well, it wasn’t  _quite_ yet noon — after brunch with the McCalls, Stiles saw the big black wolf’s head perk up as he entered the house. But then Derek’s ears flattened backwards the moment he caught sight of Stiles. That was… sort of hurtful. 

“Hey… sorry?” he said, wondering if Derek really had resented being left alone for New Year’s. “Not sure what I— what are you  _doing_.” Derek had approached even  as Stiles was taking off his layers of winter gear and seemed to be… sniffing him? Ears: still pointing back. A hint of fang, even.

“Jeez, did my dad forget to feed you this morning or something?” Stiles muttered, glaring at the wolf. Derek glared back, but seemed to shake himself, and the ears slowly came back to their normal position. “Happy new year to you too,” Stiles told him.

The holidays and winter break ended all too soon, and with it all pretense at a social life. Stiles’ days consisted of school and and spending as much time out on the trails as humanly possible. The team needed every hour of training he could handle.

Princess was still restricted to her own private fenced-off recovery area to keep her out of fights, and she would watch Stiles harness the team and leave on each run with big sad eyes and her head on her paws. It seriously sucked.

On the other hand, Bobby’s face had healed up fine, with no effect on his vision, and he was back on the team making up for lost time. And the new sled his dad had gotten him for Christmas handled like a fucking  _dream_.

And yeah, it was awesome to watch Tony become a great lead dog in his own right, with Derek there to keep him on track; and how Wally and Selina, the swing dogs, could manage every tricky turn Stiles threw at them; how all the dogs were in the best shape of their lives and had really extended their stamina. They never seemed to get tired anymore. The training  _was_ paying off; they operated like a well-oiled machine, almost every time.

But mostly it was exhausting. Time passed in a blur of dog food, dog shit, dog harnesses, medical checks, sled maintenance, strategy discussions and planning. Frequently after long, grueling weeknight runs in the dark, Stiles would question all his life decisions, ignore stray pieces of homework and fall immediately into bed with his socks still on, often well before midnight. Sometimes he’d miss seeing human-Derek for days at a time.

Despite all that, Stiles didn’t forget about the upcoming full moon. There was no time for proper research, but in spare moments his brain picked away at the more legitimate spells he’d encountered, comparing them, trying to figure out the framework. 

And as he pieced together a theory, hoping that what he was thinking made any kind of magical sense… he had an idea.

#

“So what’s the plan,” Derek growled. Newly-shifted, he caught the bundle of clothes Stiles threw over at him, but glared in lieu of putting them on. The cold barely touched him, and Stiles had been unusually reticent about what he was planning on doing for tonight’s spell. Part of that had been how busy they’d been lately with training, but… not all of it. Something was up.

The full moon cast a pale light over them as they stood in the same snowy clearing as they had on the solstice. Stiles looked at him, seeming to be weighing his words in a way that failed to allay Derek’s suspicions. “Well, the way I see it, the sympathetic link between my spell and the geas worked fine — that was the business with the wine and the blood. Meaning any action we take here and now  _will_  work through the link on the geas. But the words weren’t enough, so, I’m thinking some symbolic action, something that represents truthfulness, y’know, all that breaking through barriers stuff your sister mentioned…”

“You’re not telling me everything,” Derek said suspiciously. “I can hear your heart rate rising.”

Stiles’ long brows drew together in a stubborn line. “That’s unfair. Look, I… have something in mind. It’s not gonna hurt you or anything.”

“Then why won’t you tell me what it is?” said Derek. He had a bad feeling about all this.

“It’ll be way more symbolically significant if you don’t know,” Stiles said. “Just… trust me. C’mon, we have to get started before time runs out and we have to wait another month.”

Derek let out a frustrated huff. He hated magic.  _Symbolically_.

Still, he kept quiet as Stiles closed his eyes and slowed his breaths, centering himself, perhaps almost unconsciously. Then out came the bowl and the bottle of wine, and the apotropaic dagger — Stiles said it fit better into the spell than disposable razorblades.

Derek did his part, giving his tongue’s blood into the bowl. A strangely vivid picture came into his mind, of a bright strand of thread being drawn between his mouth and the vessel. He had to check to make sure it wasn’t actually there. Thankfully, it wasn’t.

Stiles put the bowl to his lips without hesitation and drank. Now the thread connected the two of them, the old geas linked to the spell being held and worked by Stiles right now.

Eyes closed, Stiles spoke the first truth, a foundation for the rest. “My true name is Genim Stilinski, as a gift from my mother, but my truest name is Stiles, chosen by myself.” He paused for some time — mentally testing out the next part, Derek supposed.

“I demand free and unbound truth from you, Derek Hale, in all your true forms, in speaking and being,” he said at last, and stepped forward, close enough to touch. Stiles’ eyes were open now, and darkly liquid in the moonlight. There was a stubborn set to his mouth. He continued, “And in return, I freely give to you part of the true spark I hold.”

Stiles reached up with both hands and took Derek by the shoulders. His heartbeat thudded loudly in Derek’s ears.  _Oh hell,_  Derek thought,  _he isn’t going to_ — but then Stiles did, and they were kissing, there in the snow.

At first Stiles only pressed his lips to Derek’s, almost chastely. Derek realized that he must have been spending a lot of time looking at Stiles’ lips, because their shape and feel seemed almost familiar to him. Familiar, and sweet, moving softly over his.

But it was hardly enough.  _Tongues are symbolically significant,_ Derek thought, and suited action to thought. Derek could taste wine and traces of his own blood in Stiles’ mouth. Stiles’ breath hitched as the kiss deepened, a tiny, desperate sound that raced through Derek’s body and lit the heat in him. He could hardly feel Stiles’ body through all the layers of bulky winter clothing, and he  _wanted_ to.

He’d wanted this — ever since Stiles had come home after New Year’s with the faint smell of a girl’s perfume on him and Derek had discovered in himself a terrible dark  _dread_. But with his… situation… he hadn’t let himself think about actually  _having_ — this. Any of this.

And he wanted it. God, so badly, wanted to take everything Stiles had to give, and to give everything back to him in return. There was already magic in the exchange. Derek wanted the substance, to feel Stiles shuddering underneath him.

After what seemed like no time at all, Stiles was drawing away, though Derek didn’t let him go very far. “We need to finish the spell,” Stiles whispered, though he looked rather dazed. Instead Derek kissed him again. They still had plenty of time. He  _wanted—_

Eventually Stiles broke the kiss again, more firmly. Derek couldn’t stop staring at his lips, even as Stiles insisted, “We  _really_ have to finish the spell,” and retrieved the bowl and knife.  _Fuck_ , Derek thought, unable to tear his eyes away as Stiles steadied himself with some effort and drew the blade lightly across his tongue. Derek could smell the bright burst of blood as a few drops fell into the bowl and mixed with his own. He was sure he’d never found anything like that so arousing  _before…_

He took the bowl and drank the heady mixture, drawing that imaginary thread back into himself to tie off the spell and break the magic. The liquid seemed to tingle across his tongue. Derek licked his lips. He went to kiss Stiles again, to chase that bright scent— 

“Hold on, wait a sec,” Stiles insisted, incomprehensibly — Derek could smell his arousal even under many layers of cloth. “Just— wait. Try talking first,  _then_  sloppy makeouts, okay? I need to know if it worked. The spell.”

Derek blinked and shook his head. Yes. The geas.

With some effort, he shaped the words in his head, mentally holding onto them as hard as he could:  _This is how to break the curse…_

He opened his mouth and said: “You have to rumple the duck.”

It took a few seconds for him to realize that wasn’t what he’d been trying to say. “Glass manta rays in a brick battleground,” he tried again. “Half yellow contraband pushing lost wheelchairs. Damn.”

Silence reigned as it sank in. “It’s total gibberish,” Stiles said finally. “ _Fuck_.” Emotions flitted across his face: shock, disappointment, anger, guilt.

Derek gave it another shot, hating the way Stiles’ scent had changed swiftly from warm, sweet arousal to bitter dismay. “It’s part of the heartstrings of old electricity,” he said, and had to stop. The sentences were so clear in his head that it was hard to believe the twisted way they were actually coming out.

“God, I’m so fucking sorry,” Stiles said. “Shit. I really, really thought that it would work. Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” said Derek. And it was. He felt the heat within him still, wanting. He didn’t regret any of that. “It doesn’t matter. We can try again.”

Stiles avoided his gaze, guilt still written all over his face. Derek stepped closer and repeated, “It’s okay. It took Harry Potter forever to learn Occlumency, you know.”

That got Stiles to look him in the eye, at least, the corner of his mouth crooking up. “Wow. You’re such a secret dork, Derek.”

Derek loftily ignored this and continued, “Still, I’ve upgraded from zombie noises to actual words. So we’re going in the right direction.”

Stiles smirked a little, humor returning to his expression. “Horizontal?”

“What, right here?” Derek asked, mock-seriously.

“Oh my god, why did I think it was a good idea to do this out in the woods?” Stiles complained. “We have a perfectly good back yard! We could have been in my bedroom  _right now._ ”

 _That_ was an interesting idea. Stiles was staring again. “Wow. You look really… intense—”

Derek cut him off with another kiss.

Later, as they caught their breaths, Stiles asked, “So… does this mean you like me? Like,  _like_ me?”

“You deserve some kind of special Captain Obvious award,” Derek said.

Stiles flushed slightly and rolled his eyes. “I don’t know! I hear grad students are all total wastrels and tramps, you might have been spending your days kissing all sorts of randos.”

“No.” His relationship track record was unimpressive. Just a few people, in college, and one of them had turned out to be a totally crazy witch. 

“Oh.” More kissing, sweet and slow. After a while — quite a while — Stiles stopped him and said, “Um… it’s almost one o’ clock. Sorry, I don’t think I want to have my tongue in your mouth when you start shifting. Just… doesn’t seem right.”

Derek huffed a laugh. Then he stepped back and took off the coat Stiles had made him put on, then went for the shirt. “Don’t want to have all this on when I shift either,” he said innocently, when Stiles looked askance at him.

“You— ohhh, that is…  _mean_ ,” Stiles said, when Derek shucked off the pants and briefs too. The cold air had no power against the warmth suffusing Derek’s body, fueled by the matching heat in Stiles’ gaze.

He would have tried to snatch another kiss, but suddenly the magic was upon him. Fur enfolded him and he fell onto all fours, shrinking into his wolf shape. He looked up. Stiles watched him, regret on his face.

 _It’s okay,_ Derek would have told him.  _We have tomorrow night, and the night after that, and every night. Until you find a way to fix me._ But instead he just licked Stiles’ hand, and followed him out of the forest, towards home.

#

Kate Argent cocked her head to one side. The seals on one of her long-term spells had shifted. Subtle, but definite. She closed her eyes and sank deep into the place where she kept her magic — her mojo, as she sometimes called it, purely to annoy Chris.

Yes. One of the seals was blurring around the edges. Another was basically fucked up beyond repair. Someone had drawn a very faint but true line completely through it.

She frowned. Derek was being a  _very_ bad boy.

Kate knew where he was, naturally. Trying to hide, heh. The dramatic irony was delicious. And anyway, there was no universe anywhere in which she’d lose track of  _that_ one _._ But she’d been biding her time. After all, what was the point of putting a curse on someone and then ending his misery right away? You had to let it stew for a couple months at least.

She wanted him to  _hurt_.

It looked like she had to go remind him of that fact.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I started this fic literally two years ago, hit a block, accepted that I was going to abandon it forever. Life went on. But a small sense of guilt over not finishing when I was really pretty close was always vaguely there in the back of my mind. So finally I sat down this weekend and banged it out.
> 
> This has not been betaed and barely proofed. Deeply sorry for any continuity errors that may have slipped through. I also quit watching TW after season 2, so there is no S3+ nonsense in here.
> 
> Again, I repeat: In reality, I know nothing about dog-sledding, except stuff I looked up on the internet TWO YEARS AGO. If anyone who does know about it ever reads this, I will probably die of shame.

From: 385392100@anonymizer.com  
To: laura.hale@gmail.com  
Date: Fri, Feb 1, 2012 at 3:13 AM  
Subject: protip re: your bro  
  
  
Message:  
hi laura!!! just wanted you to know  
dear sweet derek will be a great big splattery sack of ex-werewolf (ie: dead dead dead dead dead) in under a week………  
unnnnlesssssss u come show your fugly mug, in person  
by person in your case of course i mean repulsive animal  
but imma help a sister out as youve proven incapable of doing anything useful on your own.  
wondering where derek is? c’mon.  
he went home to y’alls old burnt up den. obvs.  
now i flat out fucking dare you to come and gimme your pathetic best shot: just try to stop me from destroying him.  
come at me, wolf bitch.  
<3  
-K

Laura’s vision went red. She hadn’t lost control in a _long_ time, but her claws unsheathed and a snarl poured out of her throat now.

Oh.

_Hell_.

**_NO._ **

Twenty minutes later, Laura was barely restraining herself from tearing the door off its hinges. She could _smell_ Siobhan right there on the other side. “You want to let me in _right the fuck now_ ,” she growled, pounding a few more times on the door for good measure.

Finally it cracked open. “What do you want,” the witch said flatly. “Also, it’s 6:30 in the morning.”

“Remember that scrying spell you so kindly attempted for me a little while ago? Gotta admit, wasn’t impressed with the non-result. I want you to do it again. And you’re going to do it _right_ this time.” Laura’s smile was all teeth.

“That wasn’t my fault,” Siobhan said tightly. She was a short and mousy, looking very un-occult in her flannel pajamas. “Someone blocked the subject from the Sight. I can’t—”

“You can. Because if you don’t: my teeth, your throat,” Laura said, pointing at each. She felt her eyes beginning to glow red again. It was hard to keep the fury at bay.

Siobhan stared, eyes suddenly wide. “Okay… all right, Jesus, Laura, calm down. I’ll try, okay?”

“Yes, try. _Hard_ ,” Laura suggested.

It took way longer to set up _a bowl of fucking water_ than Laura thought made any kind of rational sense. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” she muttered under her breath as Siobhan puttered around nervously. Finally, _finally_ the witch proclaimed herself ready and did her bit of mumbo-jumbo.

Laura stared hard into the scrying bowl, seeing nothing but ink floating in water. _C’mon, c’mon…_

“It feels different this time—” Siobhan murmured to herself, frowning. “Softer? The way— oh!” The surface swirled, lightened. A picture clarified out of the clouded darkness.

Derek, a graceful black wolf shape, running through the snow. Wearing a _harness_.

Wow. She was absolutely going to give him so much shit about that _forever_ — right after she broke the enchantment and killed the witch, naturally. More importantly, she studied the landscape in the background: yes, he _was_ back in Alaska.

What the fuck. How stupid could he be? How stupid was she, not to have _known_?

She let out a tight breath and said, “Fuck, okay. Good job. Thanks, witch. I’ll even donate some werewolf blood for your potions when I get back.” She was up and out the door in seconds, leaving Siobhan spluttering and demanding explanations she’d never get.

Laura had a plane ticket to buy.

* * *

A horrific thought struck Stiles in the hallway between Calculus and English. Its terrible import rooted him to the spot.

“What is _wrong_ with you, Stilinski?” some jock said, with a shove, but that hardly even registered. He didn’t want it to be true, but… in all the reading he’d done about magic, several unrelated sources all had mentioned…

Shit. How was he going to tell Derek? This was going to be _so_ _embarrassing_.

“We can’t have sex,” Stiles blurted. Derek stared at him. “Put your god damn pants on, this is really, really embarrassing,” Stiles moaned.

Derek put on his pants, a lot slower than Stiles would have liked. Normally, Stiles would have at this moment been totally fine with naked Derek, but he was trying to explain and also to resist temptation.

“Come to your senses, did you?” Derek said, finally. He looked… actually sort of hurt.

“No! It is so not that,” Stiles rushed to say. “I want to bone you, trust me. I just, uh, have this idea about, uh, a way to help with your spell problem.”

“What?”

Stiles died a little inside. “Look, so, symbolically, which is what magic is all about, as we have discussed… and y’know, how your problem is all related to, umm, removing obstructions, and wow, this is embarrassing…”

“Stiles. What are you talking about?” Derek interrupted, his perfect brows drawn together in a taut line.

Stiles took a deep breath. “Okay, so… what I am saying is… I, you may or may not be surprised to learn, am a virgin. And. That has been mentioned to be _highly_ symbolic in several semi-reliable magical texts. I mean, the removal of such a state. During a spell. Which would be ideally performed during a full moon. Which is many weeks away, _after_ the T200. If you even want to! Which, oh my god, you probably totally don’t want to anymore, if you ever did. Holy shit-squirrels, I’m going to shut the fuck up now, can we pretend this never happened?” His entire face was on fire. There was a hideous silence.

“Stiles,” Derek said, at last. “You don’t have to do that for me. Really.”

Well, that was a polite way of saying _hell, no_ if he’d ever heard one. “Oh,” Stiles said.

Then Derek sighed. “Look, I… it’s not that I don’t _want_ to. I just really feel like I’m taking advantage of you, okay?”

“Are you kidding me? I’m the one making you pull a dog sled in a literal harness. And, I… I’m not opposed to the idea. Really. I am 100% on board. Plus, I think it could seriously help break the spell.”

“The spell doesn’t matter. None of that matters, okay? It has to be your choice, something you want without thinking about… the external complications,” Derek said, looking at him intensely. That look sort of took Stiles’s breath away.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I want to. Please?”

Derek’s scrunchy worried-face slid into a tiny half smile. “A virgin sacrifice, huh?” he said. He was blushing slightly, Stiles noticed. It was fucking adorable.

“Oh my god, let’s not talk about it,” Stiles moaned.

Then he felt a touch on his cheek, and Derek was suddenly a lot closer. “We don’t have to wait till the next full moon for everything, right?” Derek asked.

“These words hurt me more than you can know, but… I don’t think we should, like… risk what magic will interpret as the exact definition of virginity. So no oral, probably not even, uh, jerking each other off. Kissing is okay, obviously, we already did that. Fuck, I hate my life right now,” Stiles said fervently.

Derek kissed him then, eager, mouth like a fire against Stiles’s lips. Irresistibly, Stiles found his hands flattening themselves on Derek’s broad shoulders, feeling the muscle there flex under hot skin. He chased the kiss, deepening it, drowning in the sensation.

“Holy shit,” he whispered in awe, when Derek finally drew back. “This is going to be really, really difficult.” His boner could probably drill through solid rock, and he could see Derek’s erection through the sweatpants he was wearing. _I did that_ , he thought in amazement. _Holy fuck, I’m awesome._

“Touch yourself,” Derek suggested, eyes locked on Stiles’s crotch. The intensity there was insane. “That’s allowed, right?”

Stiles gulped in a breath, trying to think rationally about magic, which was really difficult to do at this time, then nodded. “Yeah, it should be okay,” he choked out, and fumbled at his pants, pushing his boxers down. Derek’s gaze as he got his dick out and closed his hand around himself was like a physical force. It felt incredible.

“You too,” Stiles said breathlessly, stroking lightly in anticipation. Derek, moving with ridiculous grace, slowly pushed down his own clothing to reveal a flushed, hard, _gorgeous_ dick that Stiles immediately fantasized about putting his mouth on. He moaned, as quietly as he could.

“Give me your hand,” Derek said, voice strained and husky. Confused, Stiles held it out like they were going to shake hands. Derek took it and brought it up to his mouth. Then he licked, watching Stiles’s face the entire time. _I’m jerking off with werewolf saliva as lube_ , Stiles thought hysterically even as he put his gloriously wet hand back on his dick. Dimly he watched Derek spit into his own palm and mirror Stiles’s movements. It felt weirdly intimate — they were so close, kneeling on the bed together, staring at each other through it all and barely even blinking.

It took an embarrassingly short amount of time before Stiles felt himself unconsciously speed up, chasing an impending, stupendous climax… “Derek, I’m going to—” he breathed, and then did, spurting an impressive amount of come all over his own hand.

Derek closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, like he was catching the scent. His hand moved faster — he leaned in and caught Stiles in a hard kiss — then Stiles watched, entranced, as he tensed, let out a low half-moan, and came, a _lot_. It got everywhere.

_There is werewolf semen on my thigh,_ Stiles thought in a post-orgasmic daze. _This is the best day of my life._

After collapsing in a heap and indulging in several moments of self-congratulation, Stiles took his pants off the rest of the way and cleaned up as best he could. Then he enjoyed the sight of a relaxed, post-coital Derek, lying sleepily in his bed and looking back at him with half-lidded eyes. “This is going to be hard,” Derek said, already halfway drowsing.

“Yeah,” Stiles whispered back, smiling stupidly. “Hard. Heh.” And with that, he fell asleep.

* * *

The next three weeks were the best and worst of Stiles’s life. Best: nightly makeouts with Derek. Worst: insane sexual frustration involving insane amounts of masturbation.

They couldn’t even watch each other jerk off all the time, because it got too hard to resist doing anything more. Stiles felt that he should receive many, _many_ awards, or at least some kind of certificate, for self-control and self-denial for a greater cause.

Fortunately, the last insane few weeks of preparing for a 200-mile race was an excellent way to distract himself from the sex he wasn’t having.

* * *

The Friday before the race arrived in gusts of icy wind and snow, with more forecasted for the weekend. Nevertheless, the dogs (Derek included) all piled gleefully into Big Baby — Stiles’ name for the mobile trailer, divided into kennels, that he’d built for transportation to and from races. The contraption hooked onto the back of the Jeep, and the sled went on top of the whole thing.

He made final checks on the team as his dad packed luggage into the back seat. The sheriff had taken a few days off work, having looked deeply offended at the suggestion that Stiles wouldn’t mind if he had to miss the race. Kay had gone ahead earlier, loaded up with supplies for the team.

Finally Stiles got behind the wheel, the sheriff taking shotgun. “Ready?” his dad said.

“Can’t really say no at this point, can I?” Stiles said, with half a grin. The weather was making him nervous.

The drive to Kenai only took a few hours despite the wind and darkness. Stiles put on an old Journey tape, turned up loud to keep their spirits up, and could hear the dogs howling along to particularly inspiring choruses. It helped.

It all became a blur the moment they arrived at the race headquarters. Twenty-five mushers were entered into the full race this year, and thirty four more in the half-length T100, including mushers as young as 15 and as old as 64. Stiles joined the ranks of stressed-out people rushing around: getting checked in, signing releases, unloading the dogs.

At the vet check, the vet assigned to Stiles’ team raised her eyebrows when she got to Derek. “He’s a healthy size, eh?” she said mildly, as she inspected his legs and paws.

“Yeah, he’s a big boy,” Stiles said, trying not to laugh inappropriately. Derek glared at him.

“Thought real mushers would know how inefficient it is to have an oversized dog on their team,” a voice said from behind. “I knew there’d be amateurs at this race, but this is extreme.”

Stiles turned and saw Jackson Whittemore’s well-groomed, snotty bitchface looking at Derek and restrained himself from punching the douchebag. Jackson was the other musher around Stiles’ age entered in the adult competition. He was notorious for dropping tons of cash on prefab teams, the latest sleds, all the fanciest equipment. He was also known for winning.

He was gonna drop a perfect witty put-down, but before he came up with anything, Derek let out a low, deep growl that went straight into the primal lizard brain and declared, _Predator on the hunt. BE AFRAID._

Jackson flinched away. “Jesus, keep your fucking dog in line, asshole,” he said. Then he bolted.

“So your dog’s smart, too,” the vet added, smirking at Jackson’s retreating back.

“That he is,” Stiles agreed. _And I think I’m kind of falling in fucking love with him,_ he thought wistfully.

* * *

The rest of Saturday was filled with meetings, going over the rules and the schedule, a busy rush of preparations and last-minute strategy. The next morning, after the breakfast with all the mushers in the race, there was a ceremonial start in Kenai. Each musher gave a ride to kids in the Make-a-Wish Foundation program; hearing the shrieks of delight from the kids as the dogs pulled them down the road was definitely awesome.

And then the real race began.

“HIKE!”

Tense stillness exploded into motion as the team _pulled_ , quickly leaving the town behind. The weather still wasn’t good — Stiles thought there’d be snow before long, so he pushed the team faster than he otherwise might have, worried about having to deal with unpacked snow on the trail on top of everything else. He tried to focus: the main issue was timing the checkpoints so that he would be able to get some privacy around midnight, when Derek would change form.

Darkness fell quickly. The world shrank down to the harsh circle of light from the sled’s lamp: the dogs working furiously, the white snow and jagged black pines, speeding by. It was beautiful, in a primal way. Just wilderness, man, and dogs, running headlong into the dark.

He hit the first checkpoint around the two and a half hour mark, which was a good time. The dogs were used to going fast out of the gate — Stiles preferred the ‘run hard, rest hard’ strategy overall — and Derek, of course, loped along steadily at the head of the pack like he could go forever. But as he feared, it began to snow three hours in, well before he made it to the second checkpoint. He could see some of the team dogs start to slow down as the soft snowflakes began to pile up.

By the time he got to the checkpoint, the mandatory two hour rest stop there was definitely appreciated. Stiles got everyone settled, distributed food, checked all the dogs’ booties and feet, and let the dogs nap and drink. There had been five other teams at the checkpoint when he’d arrived; more drifted in over the course of the stop, one by one. Well, at least he wasn’t last.

Stiles let the team rest for a half hour more than the mandatory two, knowing he planned on going fast and letting the dogs build up energy. As some of the other teams headed out of the rest, he watched his other lead dog Tony, and some of the others — Bart and definitely Snotnose — stare longingly at the departing teams. They wanted to _race_.

When he got everyone back in position and got on the sled, he didn’t even get to shout the command before Derek leapt into a flat-out gallop, bringing all the dogs into a fever pitch of excitement. They left the checkpoint like fourteen very furry bats out of hell.

The snow just kept coming, though. The dogs sustained the pace for an impressive amount of time, but they began to flag after a couple of hours. They lost time when Stiles noticed Beast, one of his wheel dogs, taking the turns far more awkwardly than he normally did; it didn’t seem too serious, but it did require a change of booties, a paw-check, and a short break.

The snow was only falling harder. Stiles cursed as he rushed through the next checkpoint. It was 11:33 pm. Normally, it’d only take an hour to reach the midpoint, where there was a mandatory six hour rest period when Stiles could catch some sleep; however, all the dog teams would have to bed down in an open field with the others. There was no way to hide Derek.

So at an opportune moment when there was no one anywhere near in front or behind, he pulled the team off the trail and into the woods. Some of the dogs whined in confusion, but followed Derek obediently, even after Stiles unharnessed the werewolf. Stiles took the opportunity to check again on Beast’s feet and the others for good measure, then set up the tent against the falling snow.

“This snow needs to stop,” Derek’s voice came grumpily out of the darkness. Stiles had shut off the lights so other teams on the trail wouldn’t see them.

“Yeah, it sucks,” Stiles sighed. Now that they weren’t moving, the cold began to seep in around his extremities. They went into the tiny tent and even Derek wrapped a sleeping back around himself for warmth, settling in to wait out the hour.

“Well, at least we’ll be incredibly well rested after the midpoint,” Stiles mused optimistically.

“I’ll get the pack to move, trust me,” Derek told him. “As long as we don’t encounter any more moose.”

“I’ve got a rifle. Also, a werewolf. Not that worried about moose at this point.”

“You know, once we win this race,” Derek said, voice lowering, “it’s only three days until the full moon.”

“Don’t, I can’t handle getting a boner right now, there is too much going on,” Stiles groaned. “And hey, you think we’re gonna win? Competitive much?”

“When I do something, I like to do it well. By winning.”

“Well, we’re gonna have to run like goddamn mushing perfection to make up the time after all this, especially with all the snow. I mean, personally, I’d be happy to make it through and not be absolute last place. There are like seven teams with Iditarod experience here!”

Stiles could practically hear Derek rolling his eyes. “Werewolf, Stiles. We won’t be last place.”

* * *

As soon as the midnight hour was up, the team went on the move. Before they knew it, they pulled into the midway camp at Freddie’s Roadhouse, which was full of dogs and people. Stiles wondered if they really were the last team to show up. He laid out the straw bedding for Derek and the dogs and got them comfortable, went around distributing food and massaging feet, putting ointment on paws that seemed sore or cracked under the booties.

Once the team was settled, he went into the building, got some hot food into his stomach, and slept. Six hours passed in a drowsy blur, then his alarm went off and the adrenaline rushed back into his system.

As Stiles went outside, the back of his neck prickled. A long, wild howl sounded, followed by a chorus of smaller, younger barks and howls. He stared. It was Derek and his team making all that noise.

He almost fell over himself running over to them to see what the matter was. But Derek looked very pleased with himself, and Mystique and Drake leapt up to lick at Stiles’s face in happy excitement. “What, was that like a halftime speech to pump up the team?” Stiles asked, laughing in relief. “The other teams are gonna be on the lookout for a pack of wolves, jesus.” Derek let out a wolfy grin that involved gleaming teeth.

And then they were off again, running faster and more smoothly than Stiles had barely imagined possible. The miles piled up behind his team’s bootied feet. Every so often, Derek would lift his big head even as he loped, effortless, and howl up at the sky. Each time, the other dogs would call out after, echoing the wolf’s wild song.

They passed a rival team, pulled over on the side of the trail, then another that seemed to be struggling in the snow. The musher, who Stiles had only met briefly the day before the start of the race, called out after him: “Watch out! There’s wolves somewhere out there, making the dogs real nervous!”

Stiles grinned. They ran on.

* * *

They moved like clockwork. At every stop, every break, Derek hustled the team into efficiency; growled at any dog who looked about to act aggressive over food, calmed and licked any dog who seemed stressed out, pointed out foot problems and possible ankle soreness to Derek with a point of his nose. Stiles just watched in awe. Even the weather improved a bit, and Stiles was even prepared to believe that Derek had secret werewolf weather-control powers. It looked like he’d be able to get through the entire race without dropping a dog, which was unusual, especially for a first race of this length.

Thanks to their extra-long midnight/midway break, Stiles felt comfortable pushing now to make up the time. They passed even more teams through the next few checkpoints and mandatory rests. The sky lightened to a bleary gray, and Stiles realized, at the fifth checkpoint, that he’d been racing for 24 hours. There was exhaustion building up behind his eyes, but the burn of adrenaline kept it at bay for now.

The light faded soon back into the long winter night, and again there was nothing but snow and the running.

* * *

They pulled out of the sixth and last checkpoint at top speed. This was the last stretch, and Stiles knew that there were teams ahead that he needed to pass, and teams not far behind, pushing towards the finish line.

He almost laughed when he saw Jackson Whittemore’s expensive sled come into view up ahead. “Derek!” Stiles called out. “Go on, straight ahead!” He _did_ laugh when Derek howled and the team put on an extra burst of speed. Jackson’s face as Stiles pulled ahead inexorably was mostly a blur in the still-falling snow, but Stiles just _knew_ that it was hilarious.

#

“Fourth place! Oh my god, dude, that is insane!” Scott was there, all huge smiles and near-hysterical excitement, pulling Stiles into a deep bro hug. Stiles’s dad wasn’t far behind Scott in excitement, and Kay and Allison were there too, laughing and red-cheeked with cold. They’d been waiting at the finish to cheer him on.

“Holy sh- schnauzers, son, that was amazing,” his dad exulted. “We were following your GPS signal on the map, and that long break just before the midpoint had us really worried. But the second half was just… magic! Incredible.” His dad shook his head, grinning.

Stiles grinned dopily back. He had crossed the finish line only a few minutes ago and was tired as hell, but ecstatic at the same time. Maybe Derek was only satisfied with first place, but considering that this was his first adult race and the conditions, Stiles was thrilled to have placed in the top five. Fourth place came with a $700 prize as well, which definitely counted for something.

“I just ran _two hundred miles,_ ” he announced, only semi-coherent.

“Buddy, I think that was mostly your dogs doin’ the running. But you did good too,” Kay told him, clapping him on the back. “Let’s get your team cooled down and put them down for the night, huh? If you feel up to it, the awards ceremony is in a little bit.”

“I might fall face-forward in my dinner, but sure! I win all the awards! Actually, Derek should be the one getting the award, he was amazing,” Stiles rambled. “All you guys were!” He stumbled forward and picked one of his dogs to hug at random, then another. Bart licked his face messily.

Everything was awesome and perfect and Stiles wanted to keep this moment forever.

* * *

Derek had to admit, despite his words earlier, fourth place was pretty damn good. He was impressed. The pack was young, but they’d all done really well. Next year he’d have whipped them into even better shape— He caught himself and shook his head mentally. They would have to had broken the spell by then. There’d be no next year.

_This is not something I can afford to forget about,_ Derek told himself sternly.

He was going along with the rest of the team for a final vet check and then to the kennels, where they could rest, when he caught sight of a very familiar blonde figure looking right at _him_. Smiling nastily.

It was Kate.

And Derek remembered what it felt like to think of nothing but fear.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some minor, canon-typical violence in this chapter... sort of?

Stiles,  
Don’t look for me. This is for the best. You don’t need me any more, and you can’t help me.  
D 

Stiles stared at the note on his desk and didn’t buy it for a hot second. It was the day after the end of the T200, and Derek was nowhere to be seen. Something, obviously, had gone wrong.

Just to make sure, he went down to the kennels. Derek wasn’t there. Stiles wondered… He’d seen articles about the old Hale family house…

By the time he got to the site, it was already dark. The Alaskan day in February wasn’t exactly conducive to investigation. The ruins of the house were unspeakably creepy, starkly illuminated by his Jeep headlights.

“Derek?” he called out in a half-whisper.

“Who the _fuck_ are you?”

“ _Balls,_ ” Stiles yelped, ducking behind his car, what the _fuck_ was he thinking — he should have at least brought one of the _dogs_ — A hand gripped his shoulder and pulled him up, and Stiles found himself being slammed flat against the car, staring a hot, dark-haired woman right in the teeth. _Pointy_ teeth, bared in a snarl. She looked a lot like…

“How do you know Derek?” the woman growled.

“Are you Laura?” Stiles blurted. “Oh my god, you scared the shit out of me. You are a _lot_ scarier than him.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Where is he? And let me repeat: Who. The _fuck._ Are you.”

“I’m Stiles! Stiles Stilinski. Derek’s been, uhhhhh, staying with me. I’ve been helping him! I thought he was doing okay, spell aside. We were working on breaking it, I had some ideas — thanks for your tips there by the way… but then today he ran off and left some stupid note, so I went looking for him!”

“Ha. You must be the one who put him in a dog sled harness,” Laura said, stepping back and letting her fangs recede.

“Ha. Yes. He was having fun?” Stiles said weakly. “We placed fourth in a 200-mile race just, god, yesterday?”

“Stars. Well, I always did tell D-Rock that he needed to exercise more,” Laura said, her perfect Hale eyebrows quirked in amusement. _Hotness clearly runs in the family,_ Stiles thought. _Also, D-Rock, whaaat?!_

“So… I take it he’s not here,” he said instead, trying to stay focused on the problem at hand.

Laura shook her head. “He’s not that far away… and he isn’t hurt, yet. I’m his alpha, I can feel him through the pack bond. But I think he’s moving pretty fast. Kate’s coming for him.”

* * *

“I’m going out! Be back later,” Aunt Kate called out, as she put on her boots.

“Where are you off to?” Alison asked, looking up from the book she was reading. Aunt Kate had come for one of her rare visits just recently; when she’d heard about how Allison’s friend was competing in the Tustumena 200, she’d expressed an interest in seeing dog sled racing and going with Allison to the finish line.

“Oh, just gotta get out of the house sometimes, get some air, y’know, Allie,” Kate said airily.

Allison frowned as the door slammed shut. Ever since Aunt Kate had come back, Allison’s magical sense had been pinging insistently, like something was just… _off_. She wasn’t sure if it was something Kate was doing, or if something was being done _to_ Kate, but it wasn’t anything solid enough to take to Dad or the Council.

Instead, Allison sent out the barest whisper of power towards Kate’s retreating figure, and latched it silently onto her aunt’s aura. Just a small tracker. If anything happened, at least Allison would know.

You couldn’t be too careful. It was, after all, the Argents’ duty to enforce the Law. They were an old magical family, and this was the most important part of their heritage: watching out for possible infractions and carrying out the rulings of the Council.

She settled back to her book, but kept part of her mind open to the tracker.

* * *

“Deeeerek,” Kate Argent sang out sweetly. She knew he was right… within… reach.

She felt the moment when midnight struck and the transformation was triggered. Ahhh… there he was. She released a strand of magic and neatly plucked the werewolf out from where he was trying to hide. He was of course, delightfully naked, and she could sense his anger and fear. Mostly fear.

“You didn’t think you could hide from me, did you?” she told him.

Derek didn’t respond, just glared. Such bravado. Kate rolled her eyes. “Please. Derek, you’re welcome to pretend you aren’t fucking terrified, but I can tell. I _know_ you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“What was that?” Kate demanded.

“You don’t know me at all, Kate,” Derek bit out. “All I know is that we dated for a month, and had some pretty athletic sex, and then I dumped you. And then the next thing I know, you’re a witch and you’ve cursed me and are threatening my sister! What could you possibly know about me?”

Kate seethed at the blunt reminder of her… less-than-successful seduction. Well, the seduction had gone swimmingly, but she’d been playing a long game and Derek, _that asshole_ , had the nerve to dump _her. Her!_ When she was the one planning all along to make him fall in love with her so that she could symbolically become part of his pack, and from there, steal that primal magical energy for her own reserves.

She let the rope of magic crackle and tighten, knowing that it would feel like barbed wire squeezing the werewolf’s skin. “I know that you’re a pathetic animal, alone and unloved. All werewolves are barely more than beasts. The Council will thank me for cleaning up the strays.” She eyed his _truly_ delicious body, which quivered, very subtly, with fear. “Where’s your alpha, Derek? Where’s your little _pack?_ Oh… right. You barely have one. That’s why I can do _this_.”

She closed her fist sharply. The magic closed in like a set of sharpened pincers. The sound of the werewolf’s badly-suppressed scream was balm to her enflamed hate.

* * *

“Who the hell is _Kate_? Derek couldn’t say her name, he couldn’t talk about her to me at all,” said Stiles.

“She’s a psycho,” Laura growled. “She came onto him, really strong. Derek’s kind of a pushover really, so he went along with it, and she acted all sweet. But I had a feeling that wasn’t the whole picture. And then after a month, he told her that it wasn’t working out and they shouldn’t see each other any more. So, fine, you might expect crazy amounts of angry texts, online stalking maybe, whatever, from a crazy ex. But then it turns out she’s a _witch._ God, I hate witches,” Laura added darkly.

“Okay… Jeez. So then Derek ran away to here, to keep _you_ safe… but then why are you here now?” Stiles asked.

“Kate e-mailed me. Told me where to go and that she was going to kill Derek. Dared me to face her. Obviously, I came— _oh!”_

“What, what? Are you okay?” Stiles asked frantically, as Laura tensed in on herself in apparent pain.

“It’s Derek,” she said. “She’s _hurting_ him. I can feel it through the pack bond. I have to go — I’ve got the general direction…”

“Woah, woah, woah. I am coming with you,” Stiles said.

“No.”

“Yes! Look, Kate obviously wanted you to do exactly what you’re doing now — rushing in by yourself! She’s ready for you. You won’t do Derek any good if you don’t stop and think about this.”

Laura growled — a real, alpha growl that buzzed across Stiles’s eardrums like a barely-controlled chainsaw. “I’m still going to protect him,” she gritted out.

“No, yeah, that’s totally fine. Totally fine. Just— let me help, okay? I have an idea,” Stiles insisted.

Laura listened.

* * *

“This is fucking _weird_ ,” she muttered, staring at the pack of eager, multicolored _huskies_ staring up at her. They were smaller than she’d have thought sled dogs should be. But she _could_ feel the power of the pack bond running through them, connecting them to Derek, and by proxy, to her. 

“The pack bond gives you power, right?” Stiles said. “I’m pretty sure Derek had some kind of werewolf-y connection with the team here. They ran a hundred miles in, like, eight hours! It was pretty mystical.”

“There’s definitely _something_ there,” she said. The dogs, at any rate, were looking to her as if they were well aware that she was the alpha. They were a bunch of kids, really. Barely out of puppyhood. But… they _had_ run with Derek.

She growled at them, conveying: _Pack in trouble. But you better do EXACTLY as I say. I’M the alpha here._

Tails wagged. A black-and-white sheep-dog-like creature whined eagerly at her, tongue lolling. She could hear it clearly: _Tell us what to do tell us what to do we’ll do it yes yes yes!_

She sighed. Teenagers…

Speaking of which. “And you? I guess you’re part of the pack too, huh?” she said, looking at Stiles. 

“Yeah. I can’t take the sled, I don’t think we’re exactly gonna be traveling along the trails. But… Kay has a snowmobile and I know where she keeps the spare key.” The kid looked nervous, but defiant. She sensed that there was more that he wasn’t saying, something between him and her baby brother that she wanted to investigate… But they didn’t have time to fuck around here.

“Come on,” she commanded. “Grab your snowmobile. We’re gonna go _fast._ ”

* * *

Laura’s wolf form was, unbelievably, even _bigger_ than Derek’s. She was a deep reddish brown in color, with eerie red eyes. Alpha thing, Stiles figured. She ran ahead of the dogs at a breakneck speed that the team was clearly eager to match. He, sitting on Kay’s borrowed (totally not stolen! Borrowed!) snowmobile, just tried to keep them within view as he dodged trees and tried to find clear snow.

They wended their way deep into the untrammeled woods, until Stiles lost all track of time.

But then Laura stopped, halting the whole pack of excited but silent dogs. The alpha wolf turned back to him and gestured at the snowmobile. Then, disconcertingly, she _spoke,_ rough but understandable. _“_ Turn it off. We’re close,” she growled. “Keep up.” And then she took off again.

Stiles swore and did his best not to fall behind. Fortunately, they were moving much slower now, as Laura tried to pinpoint Derek’s exact location.

Then he heard voices. A woman’s voice, unpleasantly sneering, and… muffled, Derek was clearly trying so hard not to, but… he was screaming.

* * *

“And you know, if she does come for you, that would be even better,” Kate said, watching avidly as the werewolf writhed in pain. “What I _really_ want is an alpha’s power. God, I can just taste it… flooding into my reserves as she dies. Slowly.”

Derek’s heart clenched. But Laura wasn’t here, thank the spirits.

But then he felt it. His alpha was nearby. “No no no,” he said weakly, hoping that it was just too much magic making him imagine things…

“Get away from him,” Laura said, stepping in her true alpha form out from the darkness.

Derek stared in bewilderment. She was trailed by all the _dogs_ , fourteen huskies backing her up with fangs bared. And then… _Stiles_ was there. No, he was just _human_ , he couldn’t be here…

“About time,” Kate said, and stretched her hand out toward Laura, making a gesture of pulling, as if to yank Laura’s alpha magic out as simply as pulling thread from a frayed seam. And Derek was about to howl from despair, unable to watch his sister be destroyed—

But then Kate frowned.

She made the pulling gesture again, but Laura was still standing, strong and proud. “Our pack is bigger than you bargained for, witch,” Laura growled. “It makes us stronger than _you.”_

Without missing a beat, Kate pivoted her outstretched hand toward Stiles.

“Nuh uh,” Laura said, with terrible calm, and in less than a heartbeat she was there at the witch’s throat, one claw pressed against the jugular and her other hand twisting Kate’s arm behind her. Kate gasped and fell utterly still.

“This is it, witch,” Laura murmured, with deadly finality. Her claws flashed—

“STOP.”

Magic — powerful magic — flared, wrapping around everybody and flash-freezing them into a perfect movie still, Laura’s claws just barely cutting into the delicate skin at Kate’s throat. A tiny skein of blood unfurled from the cut.

Derek saw Chris Argent and a familiar-looking girl who must be his daughter step out of a magical portal into the clearing.

“Allison?” Stiles yelped.

“ _Stiles_?” the dark-haired girl said in shock.

“You’re a _witch?_ ”

“What are you _doing_ here?” Allison said, going over to him. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“No, but I am absolutely terrified and confused. Magic is _crazy_ ,” Stiles moaned. 

“Yeah… it’s definitely a lot to handle.” Her eyes kept getting stuck on the tableau of Kate and alpha werewolf, milliseconds away from violent bloody death.

“Your friend’s more than he seems,” Chris Argent interrupted, staring at Stiles with narrowed eyes. “Stiles, I’ll get to you later. Kate,” he said, turning to his frozen sister. “You broke the Law.”

Laura snarled. “She cursed my brother. She tried to kill him, me, the kid there. Yeah, I’d say some Laws were broken. Where were you then, Argent? I want restitution for the pain and trouble my entire pack has been put through at her hands!”

Inconveniently, Derek felt the tug of the curse working on his body — his hour was up. The fur grew over him, his bone structure shifted, and he was wolf again, staring up at the standoff between Laura and the Argents.

“So that’s the curse,” Chris said, looking intently at Derek. “Hm. Kate, tell me the parameters of the spell, please.”

Kate glared at him, eyes flashing with suppressed emotion. “No.”

“The Council will _not_ appreciate your reticence, Kate. I can’t help you if you’re going to act like this.” Laura snarled at the suggestion that Kate might get off easy, but she was helpless.

“No,” Kate repeated.

“Fine. Have it your way. We’re taking her, fortunately for you, Hale. If you’d killed her, the curse she put on your brother there would have been permanent,” Chris said coldly. “Don’t worry. She’ll be appropriately punished for her misdeeds against the Law. And we’ll get her to talk about how to break the curse.” He turned to Stiles. “Allison will be in contact with you about getting you properly taught, about the Law, and about how to use your abilities in a more productive way.”

He looked at Laura with flinty eyes. “We’ll be watching, Hale.” With a final sharp nod, Chris made a flourish with both hands and spoke a few guttural words; Kate vanished in a fall of sparks, and Laura and the others could move once again.

“Umm… Stiles, we’ll talk later. In detail. Okay? See you later!” Allison said hurriedly, as her father strode decisively away through the portal.

“What the _fuck_?” Stiles said, staring as his best friend’s girlfriend magicked herself away. “I thought we were friends! She’s been a witch this whole time?”

“I didn’t know you were friends with an _Argent_ ,” Laura hissed at him.

“She’s really _nice!”_ Stiles protested.

The woods seemed too quiet, in the aftermath of the showdown. Derek suddenly felt exhausted. His body was wracked with phantom sparks of remembered pain. He wanted to sleep for a week.

“Oh— Derek!” Was that Laura’s voice? Why was she so high up? She was kneeling over him, in her human form. He was surprised to find himself lying on the ground.

“Derek, are you okay? Oh my god, should we take him to the _vet—_ ” That was Stiles’s voice, Derek mused as he drifted towards the darkness. _Stiles_ …

* * *

Stiles hadn’t heard from Derek or Laura in two days.

After Derek’s collapse, Laura had insisted on taking the unconscious wolf with her, promising that rest and time would fix him up without interference from an ignorant human veterinarian. Stiles had been left to make his way back to the kennel, put the snowmobile back in place, and resettle the dogs. Somehow, Kay never noticed how her snowmobile had been borrowed — or if she had, she said nothing about it.

He’d had to tell Kay and his dad that Derek had run away again. They were disbelieving, but the fact was that Derek was nowhere to be found, so they’d had no choice but to believe him in the end. At least it got him a bunch of really sympathetic hugs from both of them.

Allison told him about her family history, and started to explain the complex politics of the Law, the Council, and other magic-related history and lore. Great — just another incredibly convoluted set of knowledge to keep straight.

She also explained that Stiles had a spark of magic himself, which explained how he’d managed to partially break the curse on Derek. “You’ve got a lot of promise. Seems like you have a pretty good instinctive grasp of how the symbolism works,” she told him.

“You haven’t told Scott any of this, have you?” Stiles asked.

She looked down awkwardly. “I can’t. And you can’t either. It’s—”

“The Law, yeah, I get it.” Stiles sighed. “Shit.” He hated the thought of having to hide such a major part of himself from his best friend, his dad — everyone. On the other hand, he’d hidden Derek’s secret from everyone without a single qualm, so maybe…

“We’ll figure out the curse, Stiles,” Allison told him. “It might take a while though. But he’ll be all right. I promise.”

_If I ever even hear from again,_ Stiles thought morosely. What did the Hales need with him now, after all? They had each other; their pack was reunited. He was just an accidental magic-user who had treated Derek like a fricking dog and made him run a stupid race.

No wonder Derek hadn’t even said goodbye.

And there was still always homework. Like the goddamn tides. Or taxes.

Still feeling Derek’s absence like a missing tooth, Stiles abandoned his laptop for the night and went to bed.

  


He woke up to a creepy-as-fuck scratching at the window that pinged all his horror movie senses. But the noise kept going, and despite his misgivings, Stiles eventually made himself go to the window and look out.

It was _Derek_. Somehow he, in his wolf form, had _climbed the tree_ outside the house and was waiting patiently to be let in.

“Holy shit, are you supposed to be doing this in your state?” Stiles demanded as he opened the window. Derek hopped in, ignoring the question entirely. He was a wolf on a mission: he jumped onto Stiles’s bed and curled up, like it was where he was supposed to be. In five minutes he was snoring lightly.

Stiles gaped blankly for a bit. But, as Derek showed no sign of doing anything except sleeping, eventually he got back into bed and snuggled up to the black furry body.

“I missed you,” Stiles confessed, to the snoozing wolf. “Derek… I was really scared for you. God. I heard you _screaming in pain_ , you know?” He huffed out a breath, not really sure where he intended to go with this. Not that it mattered, because Derek couldn’t hear him. Thank God. “I’m glad you’re okay. And I’m glad you’re back with Laura.”

A comfortable moment, suffused with warmth, went by. Then Stiles continued, “This is going to sound incredibly stupid, so it’s lucky that you’re asleep. But… even though you’re a wolf for 23 hours per day, and even though we never even got to do that, uhh, ritual we talked about… I think you’re amazing. And hot, and secretly funny. And even though it’s not really a good time or a good situation or whatever, I kind of think I’m… in love with you. In fact, I know I am.”

He yawned. He’d fully intended to wait till Derek turned human, even if he stayed asleep, if only to see him and make sure he was all right. But Derek was really warm, and he was getting drowsy. “One day I might even tell you when you’re awake,” he murmured, and shut his eyes.

* * *

“Stiles, wakey wakey, you’re going to be la— _Who the hell is that?”_

Stiles came awake with a start. There were more limbs in his bed than he was prepared for, especially at this time of morning. “Whu…?” he managed blearily.

Then he actually looked down.

Derek was human. In his bed, at— he checked the clock— 7:03 in the morning.

Naked.

And his dad was staring at him, mouth hanging open. “Jesus, Stiles, I’ve got no problem with you being bi or gay or whatever, but— this… he… When did he even _get_ here?” Dad’s face was getting _alarmingly_ red.

“Stiles… wha’s going on?” Derek slurred, adorably confused and barely awake.

“I think I broke the spell,” Stiles said blankly, staring. “How did I…? Anyway, uh. Dad, so… this is going to be hard to explain, and give me the benefit of the doubt here, please, but… this is Derek.”

“Your _dog_?”

“Hoo boy. Dad, maybe you should sit down. This is going to take a while,” he sighed. “Derek… please put some pants on.”

* * *

A goodly number of expletives, questions, and exclamations later, the Sheriff left to go to work, with the promise of having a good long conversation with Chris Argent at some point in the very near future. Possibly Laura Hale as well.

“Well, that was excruciating,” Stiles said, feeling exhausted already. It was only 8 am and he was late for school. He wasn’t sure if it was even worth bothering today. He looked at Derek, who was sitting patiently at the end of the bed. “What are you even doing here, Derek? Coming through the window at night like a huge creeper?”

Derek looked wounded. “You’re pack,” he said, as if that were a real explanation. “More importantly… you broke the spell.” And suddenly he was a lot closer than he had been before.

“Uh… yeah. Do you know how I managed to do it, ‘cause I’m in the dark here,” Stiles said, mesmerized all over again by Derek’s eyes.

“You said you loved me. You must have,” Derek breathed, close enough to kiss. “That was the key. I thought no one would ever…”

“Seriously? _You_ were afraid that…?” Stiles huffed a light laugh. “You’re amazing.” And he leaned forward into a kiss that quickly grew heated. “Oh god, we don’t have to hold out for anything anymore!” he realized. A whole vista of pornographic options unfolded before his eyes.

Derek smirked, but Stiles detected a note of shyness there too. “Where do you want to start?”

“Ohh man. Too many options. Cannot even,” Stiles said. “Let’s just start here,” and pounced.

* * *

TWO YEARS LATER

“Are you actually intending on joining us at some point, _D-rock_?” Stiles demanded, all ready to go in his sled, the team harnessed and eager in front.

Derek rolled his eyes. “That nickname is off-limits. How many times do I have to explain this? That is a Laura-only alpha privilege.”

“Pretty sure I get a special boyfriend dispensation to call you whatever I like, wolfy-babe.”

“Snotnose, tell me. What did I do to deserve this?” Derek deadpanned as he reached down and scratched the husky behind the ears. Stiles could see him hiding a smile anyway.

After the spell had been broken, Derek had gone back to Seattle to finish his degree. He’d completed his thesis with reckless abandon and was now a certified master of the modern sublime. After which, he and Laura had packed up and moved back to Alaska — to Anchorage, where Stiles had decided to go to the University of Alaska Anchorage.

Stiles was majoring officially in physics, and unofficially minoring in spell-breaking and research, thanks to the school’s underground magic department. And as if that weren’t enough, he also kept a kennel on the outskirts of the city. How could he not?

“You dated a crazy witch and got cursed,” Stiles said cheerfully. “But now you get to help me train my team of awesome huskies and run around in the snow. I’m thinking we aim for the Iditarod after I graduate, eh? I promised you it’d be way fun, right? Right?”

Derek laughed. It was a beautiful night for running, and the freshly-cleared trails wound in and out through the forests, packed with snow and awaiting their approach. Sharp fresh scent on the wind. He shifted into wolf, feeling the ripple of fur and muscle, ready to go and go and go. He was happy.

And so together, they _ran_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND SO IT IS FINISHED. THE FIRST MULTICHAPTER FIC I HAVE EVER FINISHED.
> 
> AND IT IS ABOUT MAGIC DOG SLEDDING.
> 
> GOOD JOB, SELF. GOOD JOB.
> 
> You can talk to me at [sphesphe.tumblr.com](http://sphesphe.tumblr.com), where I infrequently post fanart of extremely random stuff.


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